


Lay Your Head Down on the Shoulder of a Good Friend

by Skitz_phenom



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: After Camlann Merlin Big Bang, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, BAMF Merlin (Merlin), Canon-Typical Violence, Dammit Uther, Extraneous Princesses, First Time, Harm to Animals, Healing Magic, Idiots in Love, Kings & Queens, Knights being Bros, M/M, Magic Revealed, Nosy Dragon, Oral Sex, Prince Merlin (Merlin), Protective Knights (Merlin), Romance, Ygraine Lives (Merlin)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-12 23:50:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 97,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21234635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skitz_phenom/pseuds/Skitz_phenom
Summary: With Camelot readying for the upcoming gathering of rulers of the Southern Kingdoms to discuss peace, Uther has tasked Arthur with an additional duty: befriend the Prince of Essetir and learn anything he can of King Balinor, and of magic, and of dragons, that might be of interest should the treaty not succeed.That's easier said than done, as he and Prince Merlin don't exactly hit it off immediately. But, befriending Merlin and learning of magic and life in Essetir leads Arthur down the paths of discovering long held secrets surrounding his own birth, and his mother's ill health, and his father's hatred of all things magic.Adding even more complications to the mix are rowdy knights, frustrating princesses, a possible traitor in their midst, and an overly-verbose dragon; not to mention the burgeoning and peculiar feelings for his fellow prince that Arthur struggles to put a name to.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [ART: Lay Your Head Down on the Shoulder of a Good Friend](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21244898) by [siennavie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/siennavie/pseuds/siennavie). 

> I have a plethora of thanks to give out, as this fic would not have seen the light of day were it not for some very invested, very motivating and very special people!
> 
> \- First - Siennavie, my ah-may-zing artist! (see her Art Masterpost [HERE](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21244898)) 100% guarantee that I'd not have finished this without your gorgeous art inspiring me so deeply! You are a rockstar extraordinaire! And damn, that's some beautiful art! Speaking of art, readers, you'll notice this is front-heavy on the stunning pieces created by the ultra-talented Siennavie. That's due to my spectacularly poor writing habits. Siennavie made Merlin-level magic with what I got to her in any decent kind of time! 
> 
> \- Second - My beta, J. As ever, putting up with my aforementioned down-to-the-wire habits and not strangling me as a result. (Though we may need to revisit ‘helpful’ notes like ‘expand on this: show, don’t tell’ when it ends up prompting me to add 15k!)
> 
> Any remaining errors are 100% my fault because I change things all the damn time. If you see something, let me know! I'm a never-ending-editor!
> 
> \- Third - The After Camlann Mods! *sheepish* Yeah... I'm quite sure I lived up to my rep as a pain-in-the-ass. (Or maybe that rep only lives in my head, but it's well-deserved either way). Thank you, beyond words, for your patience and for allowing this generous amnesty week posting. (It's still Oct. 30th somewhere in the world!)
> 
> \- Lastly - Daroh! You're always there when I need to be talked down or reassured or even just need some good mental vibes. Thank you, mah dear!
> 
> **IMPORTANT UPDATE!** New Art has been added to Chapter 17 - because Siennavie is brilliant and wonderful and both talented and generous beyond compare!  

> 
> **See end notes for clarification on the 'Harm to Animals' tag and _any_ additional content concerns. Contains minor spoilers**

“Ygraine, what have you done?”

Uther stares – wide-eyed and unblinking – at his wife seated in the middle of a ring of half-melted candles, bared to her skin where several crudely drawn sigils have been painted upon her body with… blood?

Despite the horror in Uther’s voice, Ygraine gazes up at him, defiant and unflinching. “I have done what you would not.”

“No,” he protests, though it is clearly far too late. “No, you cannot do this. You know the cost!”

“And I pay it gladly, Uther.”

He casts about, desperate for a moment for some evidence that denies what’s in front of him. It’s clear though; the jagged white symbol carefully transcribed from a half-crumpled parchment to the stone floor in crumbling chalk, bundles of herbs already picked-through or burned to powder, a chalice still wet-rimmed in crimson, they all speak of a deed well and truly done.

“But… but, how? The ritual… I don’t…” he sputters. “It needed the both of us. How could…” He trails off, stomach going sour, as he recalls their frantic coupling only hours earlier. How Ygraine had clung to him, needy and fierce and demanding as she hadn’t been in an age. The way she’d urged him, at the end, to allow her to coax his spend with her delicate hand. And then, to waking alone, to a bed half-empty and linens already gone cold.

This was prearranged. Deliberate.

He feels ill and used.

“Uther,” the name is uttered by Nimueh. “It is done.”

“You!” He’d been so focused on Ygraine that he’d not even noticed the sorceress standing in the shadows of the room. “You did this to her. You and your cursed magic!”

Nimueh shakes her head. “She came to me freely, Uther. She begged it of me.”

“She refused me, at first, Uther,” Ygraine confirms. “But I would not accept that. I want this more than anything.”

His anger cannot find focus. “She refused you, yet here you are. And I’m to just accept that in less than a year’s time, my wife could be gone from me?” He points an accusing finger at Nimueh. “You said that the magic demands a sacrifice, that it would likely cost Ygraine’s own life to bring a child into this world.”

“Uther, it is my choice.” Ygraine stands then, slowly and unashamed of her nakedness. The shutters on the windows to this tower chamber are thrown wide, letting in the night mistrals, but she looks unaffected by the cold. The breeze plays through her long, silver-blond tresses; they glitter like gossamer thread in the play of flickering candlelight, and he’s caught by her ethereal beauty.

Although, that’s not unusual. He always finds her glorious to look upon and often cannot keep his eyes from her shape, but those ugly, flaking sigils look like wounds and he cannot bear to let his eyes fall upon them. He casts about until he spots her sleeping gown and then hurries to wrap her up in it like a cloak.

Despite his fury, his fear, having her close is impossible to ignore, and he draws her into his arms, holding tight. “Why, why would you do this?”

Nimueh steps closer, holding up her forearms. Where Ygraine’s symbols had been painted on with fingertips, those that mark Nimueh’s skin are carved in and bleeding sluggishly still. “I have bargained with the magic, Uther. You will not lose your wife when the child comes. Nor for many years after.”

“She gave some of her own life, Uther,” Ygraine adds. “It will tie me to her. I will live to raise our child.”

For a moment he feels hope: a child of his own, and his wife still by his side. But Uther knows magic; knows its’ tricks and its’ schemes. “There will still be a cost. Someone must still pay the price. What is it?” he demands.

For a moment Ygraine and Nimueh are silent, sharing a look with one another.

It’s Ygraine who finally answers, “I will still pay it. I will survive, yes. But after your son is born, I will diminish.”

She says it deliberately, as a distraction; he knows this, but Uther can’t help focusing on a single word. “Son?”

“Yes, Uther,” Ygraine tells him, smiling beatifically. “A son. Already he is a spark of life within me.” She presses a hand over her flat belly. “You will have an heir.”

It’s all he’s wanted. He’s prayed to the gods for it and cursed them just as soundly when Gaius reported that Ygraine was barren. He’d gone with his wife to the sorceress Nimueh for aid. Even when learning the price it would cost, there’d been a miniscule part of him that had been tempted to pay it. But, Ygraine is his world. Their courtship had been stormy and fiery and their marriage all the more passionate for it. She is the cool rain to his blazing flame. He cannot imagine a life without her.

So, despite the joy the thought of a son brings, his attention shifts back to the rest of her words. “Diminished how? What does that mean.”

“It means I will grow weaker, Uther. Slowly, over time, I will weaken, and become less of myself. In time, many years from now, when your son is grown, I may no longer be able to walk on my own, to speak. Possibly to know you.” She says it gently, with no hint of the fear he knows she should be feeling.

Somehow, that sounds worse than death. He will have to watch his beloved wither away. He damns the magic, cursing it and then cursing the one who cast it. “How could you do this! I should have you in irons!”

“Careful, Uther. Your wife’s life is tied to mine now. You don’t want any harm to befall me.”

Damned magic. For every drop of good it can do, evil springs up not far behind. He curses the day he ever let its corruption into his kingdom.

“Get out,” he hisses. “You and your ilk are no longer welcome in Camelot.”

“Uther!” Ygraine protests. “You cannot do this!”

“No, I won’t have this depravity in my kingdom any longer. Magic and sorcery bring nothing but horror and grief. Too long I have let its evil charms sway my mind. No longer!”

“Do not make enemies of those with magic, Uther,” Nimueh cautions, her eyes glinting a brief golden sheen.

“They make enemies of themselves! You called yourself our ally, our advisor. Yet you would do this, plot behind my back. It is disloyalty of the highest order. It is treasonous!”

Nimueh flinches back, looking wary and scared for the first time. “Would you have us imprisoned then? Burned or beheaded even, as they do in Essetir?”

There’s a part of Uther that wants to bite out a fervent ‘Yes’ to that, but Ygraine’s hand on his arm tempers him, if slightly. “No,” he finally allows, cold and firm. “No. But I will not have magic in Camelot. Henceforth I shall decree that all magic and sorcery is banned from the kingdom. Those found using magic will be banished from these lands.”

Nimueh lets out a small sigh, blowing the breath between pursed lips, and bows her head.

It irritates him for no reason he can name. “Should they defy me, however, I _will_ mete out just punishment.”

She looks up again, meeting his eyes. “This is a grave mistake.”

“The mistake was yours, Nimueh. When you bargained with my wife behind my back and defied your king. You made magic my enemy and the enemy of all Camelot.” He sweeps an arm out, pointing toward the tower’s exit. “Leave my sight, now. And know this: in three days’ time any magic-user remaining in Camelot will be rounded up and forcibly… removed.”

“Uther, please. You go too far.” Ygraine’s plea falls on deaf ears, and she must realize that because instead of addressing him, she speaks her next words to Nimueh. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I did not mean for this. For all you’ve done for me…as my friend, you do not deserve this.”

“The fault is not yours, Ygraine. Your shortsighted husband will come to understand, in time.”

Uther scoffs.

Nimueh’s eyes never leave Uther’s as she skirts the edges of the circular room, keeping her back to the wall. “You will regret this, one day, Uther Pendragon. Magic will ever be tied to you and to Camelot, and you cannot keep it outside of your walls forever.”

Uther scowls, baring teeth. “We shall see about that.”

As she slips out the door, Nimueh’s last words echo behind her, “Yes, we shall.”


	2. Chapter 2

_Camelot – 20 Years Later_

“No, thank you.” Arthur covers his half-empty goblet with a palm, dismissing the servant and his ready pitcher.

The man lowers his head deferentially and circles behind Arthur’s chair to offer more of the watered-wine to Uther.

It irks Arthur that Uther does little more than blink expectantly at the man, no words of thanks given, as his goblet is filled. Of course, his father has always been dismissive of people below his station, rarely seeing them as individuals. Arthur likes to think his mother instilled him with better manners than that.

Perhaps he’ll mention it to her again when he visits her in the afternoon? He considers the idea as he picks at a honeyed loaf. Although, even if she wanted to chastise Uther over his callous behavior, she’d need to see him first.

He’s noticed that his father’s visits have been growing more and more infrequent as of late. He’s tried to speak to Uther about it – as his mother’s only comments, when she’s capable of making them, have been tight-lipped silence – but Uther is equally reticent. Whatever distance grows between his parents, Arthur knows it’s not his problem to solve, much as he’d like to.

“Have you been listening to me, Arthur?” Uther’s got an eyebrow raised and he’s glaring.

“Of course,” Arthur hurries to respond. “You were speaking of the upcoming treaty. The delay of King Caerleon due to the floods.” As the peace parlay of the Southern Kingdoms has been Uther’s only major concern the past few weeks, it’s a safe enough answer.

Uther sighs. “Yes, that _and_ the imminent arrival of King Balinor and his delegation.”

Perhaps Arthur missed that part. “Yes, of course.” He knows that each of the eight Kings from almost all the surrounding lands (sans Odin) will arrive in Camelot in the coming weeks, but Uther’s use of the word ‘imminent’ suggests at least one visitor is almost upon them.

“I’ve an important task for you, Arthur. You must pay attention.”

He recognizes the tone – one that says further shirking will not be tolerated – and sits forward in his seat to listen. “Yes, sire.”

“King Balinor, as you know, was never a noble.” Uther can’t seem to help his scowl. “He was little more than a mere peasant, who only came to power after freeing many of the villages of Essetir from various warlords and ending the reign of King Cenred.”

“With the aid of dragons,” Arthur adds, because he’s learned the history of each of the Southern Kingdoms thanks to years of meticulous teachings. He also knows his father’s feelings on the subject – he views dragons in the same vein as all things magical – so he tries not to appear too interested, or eager on the topic. In truth, he’s always found the thought of dragons fascinating.

The scowl deepens. “Yes. He is a Dragonlord, and a powerful one at that. Which brings me to my point. We’ve received the list of attendees from Essetir’s delegation. King Balinor’s son will also be joining him.”

Arthur bites back the sigh that wants to slip out. He already knows what Uther’s orders will be: entertaining some country-bumpkin princeling for the duration of their stay. He’s played the role of companion to quite a few highborn sons and daughters over the years. It’s not something he relishes.

“You want me to entertain him? Keep him occupied?”

“No,” Uther’s denial and headshake come as a surprise. As does the hand he holds up when he amends, “Well, yes, I suppose, in a manner of speaking. Magic is practiced freely in Essetir as you know, and although I’ve received Balinor’s assurances that no one of that ilk will accompany his party, I think there is an… opportunity to be had here. Yes, befriend this boy, but also keep an eye on him, gain his trust. Learn what you can of Essetir’s defenses, of its weaknesses and most of all, its resources as far as sorcery are concerned.”

“You want me to spy on him?” Arthur queries, both confused and troubled by the request. “I don’t understand, father. I thought this treaty was something you supported? You’ve said many times over the last several years that peace between Essetir and Camelot could only benefit this kingdom.”

At least Uther has the grace to look chagrinned at being called out. “I have said that, yes. And, it’s possible that it will.” He fixes Arthur with a knowing glare. “I know you’re not an idiot, my son. Having Essetir, a kingdom built upon the dark auspices of magic and sorcery, as an enemy is something I’d take care to avoid. But, I knew Balinor some twenty years ago, before he fled Camelot,” –he says ‘fled’ like Balinor had any choice in the matter, but Arthur knows he was forced out with the rest of those having magic– “and he was a man of peace. I cannot see that having changed so drastically these last decades. Perhaps if he does not keep an army ready, and doesn’t have a coterie of sorcerers at his command…” He lets the thought trail off.

“You’d risk war?”

“Not war,” Uther hurries to deflect. “Of course. But I’d think twice at signing a treaty with such a place if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. To keep Camelot free of magics’ corruption, you understand.”

Arthur understands. He doesn’t like it, but he understands it. If Essetir poses no threat to Camelot, or even appears ripe for the plucking, the benefits of a treaty – lessened need for defenses, better trade, open borders – would be outweighed by other, strategic and military opportunities. Uther may not admit it aloud, but Arthur knows there are likely also thoughts of seizing land and expanding Camelot’s borders and further eradicating magic as well.

He wants to protest, but Uther has made his opinions on magic known Arthur’s whole life. He’d have better luck arguing with a stone wall.

“Very well, father,” Arthur concedes. “You’d like me to make a friend of this prince, gain his confidence and learn what I can of his kingdom and his people.”

Uther beams proudly as he nods. “Yes, that’s exactly it, Arthur. You and this boy are of a similar age and I imagine he’s like any other prince. Keep him busy with hunting and riding and training with the knights.” He makes a dismissive gesture, like that’s all he expects Arthur’s day is filled with.

Though he bristles internally, all that Arthur says is, “Understood,” and he inclines his head, dutifully.

While Uther continues talk of the upcoming peace meeting – droning on about the late spring rains in the north and flooded plains causing a delayed start for Caerleon and Mercia – Arthur thinks on his assignment. It’s not the most onerous duty that Uther could assign, he supposes. As he’s reached his majority and Camelot is ever in need of allies, it could be worse: Uther could be expecting him to woo some princess or lord’s daughter for a treaty-marriage. It’s already been hinted there will be several princesses of marriageable age attending.

Not hungry anymore, Arthur waits until Uther seems to have come to an end on the topic and then stands. “If you’ll excuse me, father?” He flips a hand toward the door. “I’d like to make some arrangements. For hunting trips, and the like.” He manages to keep the ire out of his tone as he says it.

“Of course.”

Arthur bows, leaving his father to the remains of his breakfast.

“Arthur. Hello, my boy.”

On his way to visit his mother, Arthur is unsurprised to cross paths with Gaius just leaving her chambers. “Gaius,” Arthur gives a brief smile and inclines his head in deference. “How’re you?”

“I’m well enough, Arthur, but I know you’re eager for news of your mother. No need to spend niceties on me, young man.” His sparse brows rise above a knowing grin.

Arthur ducks his chin, grinning back. “They’re not wasted on you, Gaius. And you know what my mother would say if she witnessed me being impolite.”

“Oh yes. She’d accuse you of behaving too much like your father.”

They both chuckle.

“So how is she today?” Arthur’s amusement drains away when he asks.

Gaius’ soft smile lingers, but Arthur can see his eyes narrow. “The same as ever, my boy. Today is a good day, though. She ate well and took well to her exercises and has even managed a few words.” He pats Arthur on the shoulder. “Asked after you, actually, so I’m glad you’re here to visit. It will be good for her.”

Days that Ygraine can speak are both joyous and bittersweet. He knows it will make it all the harder when he comes tomorrow or the day after, to find she can’t hold a thought in her head or let a word pass her lips. Despite that sobering awareness, he says, “It will be good for me as well, Gaius. Thank you.” He clasps a hand over the one that Gaius still has curving over his bicep, squeezing gently a moment.

Gaius waits just a moment, knowing that Arthur wants to ask more questions; wants to ask if he’s made any progress on researching a cure for his mother’s curious malady.

Today, Arthur manages to refrain. “I’ll see you later, Gaius.”

“Be well, my boy.”

Waiting until Gaius is out of sight around a corner, Arthur raps his knuckles softly against the door and calls out, “Mother, it’s me.” He doesn’t wait for her invitation, most times these days she’s unable to voice it, but he likes to alert her to his presence before entering.

Pushing open the door, Arthur’s eyes immediately go to the large canopied bed against the far wall. When he sees that it’s empty, his shoulders loosen a fraction and he looks over to the window. There’s a large, cushion-bedecked window seat and next to it, a hand-made willow chair. Ygraine sits in the latter, although still close enough that she can look out the clear panes onto the grounds of the keep and the city below. Warm sunlight is filtered only partially by drawn, gauzy curtains and the soft illumination gives her an ethereal look. Her smile though, that makes her shine brighter than any sunlight.

“Arthur,” she says it softly, voice the barest whisper.

He hurries over to her side, dropping to a knee next to her chair.

In her lap her hands start to lift, and he reaches out to take them, clasping them gently in his.

“Arthur,” she says again. And the way she says it; he doesn’t need her to say more, to ask how he’s doing, or what’s on his mind. He hears all those questions and so much more.

“You’re looking well, Mother. I’m glad to see you out of bed. I passed Gaius in the hall; he said you had your appetite back as well. That’s wonderful.”

Her smile shrinks demurely, but never leaves her face.

Arthur nods towards the window seat. “Would you like to sit by the window? Perhaps I could get a book?”

It’s one of the things she can do with little aid. She enjoys sitting in the veritable nest of cushions and heavy fur throws, a book propped in her lap, even the chill of the glass pane against her cheek. Sometimes there’s a maid on hand to help her turn pages, but on a good day – like this one – she can manage herself.

Ygraine shakes her head just faintly. “No,” she says, “sit, talk to me.” Her voice is light, tremulous.

“Of course,” Arthur nods. He lays her hands back in her lap and then stands to retrieve a chair from the small table near the wall. He slides it over, angling it so he can sit close enough to take up one of her hands again.

“Well, I suppose it’s been a few days since we’ve spoken,” he begins, thinking on all the things that he’s done since his last visit. “The patrol went well.” A routine patrol with several of his men to the borders of Daneria, following-up on word of bandit activity, had kept him from the castle for three days. “You’ll be happy to know that Sir Elyan is progressing even better than we’d hoped.” He manages a slightly put-upon expression. “I worry he’s going to best me one of these days, actually.”

She titters an airy little laugh that’s soft like tinkling glass.

He talks a bit more about the patrol, about the bandits they finally routed, and how well Elyan purported himself in battle.

She’s the reason that Elyan is a knight, after all, so she takes a personal interest in his progress and well-being. As Elyan’s sister Guinevere is also one of Ygraine’s personal maidservants, she’s able to keep tabs on him through Gwen’s updates and Arthur’s. Though, Arthur knows that Elyan also stops by her chambers on occasion to visit with her. His kindness and respect for Ygraine is one of the reasons he and Elyan became such fast friends.

Uther would never have allowed a commoner to join the knighthood, but Elyan had saved Ygraine’s life – risking his own life recklessly wrangling her normally docile palfrey when the mare had stepped on a nail, yanked her lead from a groom, and bolted down a street with a weakened Ygraine clinging desperately to the saddle – and she’d rewarded him for his heroics.

Though Uther had protested, “The son of a blacksmith is no knight of Camelot!”

All that she’d said in reply was, “This one is now.”

To perhaps no one’s surprise, Uther had cowed to his wife’s demand. In the three years since, Elyan had progressed through his training with an alacrity and talent that made even Arthur a bit envious. He’s a natural swordsman, and much as Arthur teases his mother about his jealousy, he’s actually quite proud. Ygraine is as well, if the self-satisfied cast to her sideward grin is any indication.

He tells her of Leon as well, as he’s been a friend of Arthur’s since boyhood and another of Ygraine’s favored knights. “Sir Leon did suffer a minor injury,” Arthur confesses.

When her eyes narrow, Arthur waves away her concern with a mirthful grin. “Oh, don’t worry, mother. He’s fine. In fact, his injury had nothing to do with the bandit attack and everything to do with a green trainee letting a branch loose too quickly when we were riding home.” He can’t help but chuckle. Leon’s sporting a thin slash and some bruising across his temple and he’s quite disgruntled about it.

Her eyes dance with playful amusement. Arthur knows that if Leon visits her anytime soon, with the scabbing still visible, she’s going to tease him for it. Even if it’s a day where she hasn’t the strength or breath to speak, her eyes will do the mocking for her.

“The upcoming treaty talks are still the focus of the court, of course.” He shares a few amusing stories about the hustle and bustle about the keep as well. When he says, “Father’s being particularly stubborn about every aspect of it, naturally,” he speaks lightly, as he doesn’t like to complain when he’s with her, (and the way her eyes narrow when he mentions Uther usually makes him shy away from talking about him altogether) but she knows him too well and can sense that he’s got something on his mind.

Her fingers tighten. “Arthur,” she has to take a breath before continuing, “what’s troubling you?”

“It’s the arrival of the King of Essetir. King Balinor.”

Ygraine’s eyes widen just slightly, though she composes herself just as quickly.

Arthur’s reminded that she probably knows him or knows of him. He was in Camelot before Arthur’s birth. He fled when Uther’s ban on magic was enacted. “You know him, don’t you?”

She nods. Whatever thoughts she has on the man, though, she keeps them to herself. He’s not sure how to read that.

“I’ve never met him myself, but he’s arriving tomorrow. He’s bringing his eldest son. Father says we’re of an age and he’d like me to…” he trails off a moment, unsure how to end that sentence. “Befriend him?” he finally suggests, though that’s not quite right.

His mother’s lips thin, pressing together and paling, and she waits without saying anything, prodding him to tell the truth by that knowing expression alone.

“All right. Perhaps befriending isn’t accurate. He wants me to get to know him, see what I can learn of Essetir and their use of magic and the capability of their armies.” He sighs.

Ygraine sniffs in disapproval. “He shouldn’t… do that… to you,” she says, fiercely for as shaky and broken as her voice is.

Arthur pats her hand. “It’s all right, Mother. It’s not… I mean, it would normally be my job to keep this prince occupied anyway. It’s nothing I haven’t done before. I’m sure we’ll talk, and I doubt I’ll learn anything that will interest father anyway.”

He’s had time to think about his assignment, and though he feels conflicted – enough that his mother noticed – he’s also dutiful to his father. He tries to steer away from the topic and starts in on the issues of the flooding to the north that are delaying the arrival of Caerleon and Mercia.

His mother is clearly not interested. To his surprise, she lifts a hand up to touch his cheek, pressing cool fingertips against his skin. It’s been months since she’s been able to reach out, and he nearly flinches back from her in surprise at the unfamiliarity of it.

“Mother, what is it?”

“This prince,” she manages haltingly. “He is more than… you know.”

“I don’t understand?” He lays a hand over the one curving over his face, leaning into the insistent caress of her palm.

“You are… two sides…” the words are feeble and barely audible. It’s already too much strain on such limited reserves, draining what little energy she has.

He doesn’t want to press, but there’s something urgent, almost desperate in her eyes. “Two sides of what?”

Does she mean they’re going to be on different sides of a conflict? And how would she know? She doesn’t look worried, or alarmed at least, just frustrated that she can’t get out what she wants to tell him.

With an airy gasp she manages, “Same coin.” Despite her struggle, she smiles as she adds a final, “Trust him,” on a warbling, fading exhale.

Afraid to question further, concerned that she’ll push too hard in her efforts to answer, Arthur just nods dutifully. “I will, mother.”

Despite the words and the inherent promise in them, he’s conflicted and slightly concerned. He doesn’t understand why she would spend herself on this, and he wants to ask what she means and how she knows anything about this prince from Essetir. But the brief conversation and physical effort has wearied her, and her hand drops lifelessly back to the arm of the chair. He takes it up again, cupping loosely, and her fingers flutter like mothwings on his.

“I’ll bring him to meet you,” he promises suddenly, not even sure where the impulse comes from.

Of course, Uther will certainly object. He’s reluctant to let anyone but a select few people in with his wife. The only regular visitors who can enter anytime, without special permission, are Uther himself, Arthur, Gaius and a few specific maidservants. He begrudgingly allows a few others, like Sirs Elyan and Leon, to visit on occasion, because Ygraine wishes it. If it makes her happy though, Arthur’s willing to fight for it. Not to mention, he wants to understand why she seems so taken with the idea of this foreign prince.

Wherever the offer sprang from, Ygraine’s soft smile widens while that crystalline light seems to catch her pale cornflower eyes once again. Still, Arthur’s visit has clearly tired her, and he feels a modicum of guilt for the effort she put forward on his behalf (especially as he doesn’t quite understand it).

“I should let you rest, mother,” he says. “But I’ll come back and see you tomorrow.” He lifts her hand, bussing her knuckles and laying his cheek against them for a moment. She drags a thumb along his chin. After he rises, returns his chair to its spot against the wall and ensures she’s settled comfortably, Arthur presses a kiss to his mother’s forehead. “I love you, mother.”

Her parting, “Arthur,” is a nearly inaudible whisper that barely reaches his ears as he gets to the door.

Outside in the corridor, he meets Guinevere coming in his direction, a tray balanced carefully in her hands.

“Guinevere,” Arthur greets, smiling. “Hello.”

“Prince Arthur, hello.” Gwen starts to curtsey, like she always does.

And as always, he waves off the formalities. “Stop that, Gwen,” he chides gently.

She rolls her eyes at him and blows out a breath that stirs the loose curls framing her brow. “Of course, my prince.”

He takes her teasing in stride, shaking his head mock-disappointed at her defiance.

“How is she?” Gwen asks, with a nod toward the door.

“She’s having a fairly good day. Talking a bit, even managed a bit of movement on her own.” They share a smile. He likes having someone who understands these small victories. “Although, I think I may have tired her out with my chatter.”

“Well, hopefully she’ll have energy for a meal,” she says brightly.

“I think she will,” he agrees. “Oh, I told her the latest news of your brother and about the patrol.”

One of Gwen’s cheeks dimples in a sideways smirk. “Oh yes, I heard all about that over dinner. Elyan couldn’t help but regale my father with tales of singlehandedly dispatching a dozen bandits.” She rolls her eyes again.

Arthur chuckles. “Well, it might be a _slight_ exaggeration,” he concedes and then is forced to add, “but only slight. So, I’m afraid you’ll need to find another topic of conversation.”

“That won’t be a problem. There’s a letter here from Morgana as well.”

He glances at the tray, spotting an edge parchment peeking out from beneath the cloth covering the trays contents. “Oh?” Arthur’s brows go up. “Really? For you or for my mother.”

Gwen’s expression goes a bit sheepish. “She wrote to both of us, actually.”

Arthur tries not to let it sting that his half-sister didn’t bother include him in her correspondence, but he’s not entirely surprised. He’s not one for castle gossip and there’s probably very little she can share about her studies.

“Nothing for my father it’s safe to assume?”

Lips pressing tight, Gwen shakes her head.

Not that he expects any different. The disagreement between the two of them is something that Arthur knows will take more than just a few letters to mend. But Arthur’s mother will be happy to hear from her step-daughter none-the-less. “Well, when you write back, tell her I said I’m glad she’s not here distracting my knights with her paltry attempts at swordplay.”

Gwen giggles. “Oh, I’ll be absolutely _sure_ to tell her that, Arthur. If you want her return letter to you to catch fire when you break the seal!”

“That is probably exactly what would happen.” He laughs with her, and then walks a few steps backwards to hold the door of his mother’s chambers open for her to enter. He nods down at her tray. “Do you need any help with that?”

“No,” she tells him, sounding fond. She probably considers him daft for even asking. “I’ll take good care of her, Arthur, don’t worry.”

“I know you will, Gwen. Thank you.”

Her cheeks go a bit flush and she looks discomfited at the surety in his tone.

“Have a good afternoon, Guinevere.”

“You as well, Prince Arthur.” She slips through the doorway with a last playful wink.

Arthur walks the halls back to his chambers, thinking on the conversation and wondering what Morgana and Gwen discuss in the regular letters they both send. Before Morgana left Camelot, Gwen had been her personal maidservant and closest friend. Remembering their incessant gossiping and furtive whispers behind upraised hands and the occasional peals of wicked mirth they shared, he can only imagine the kinds of chatter they get up to.

He thought by now, though, that Morgana might have written their father. Although, she’s just as stubborn as Uther is; if not more so. They’re both likely waiting for the other to make the first attempt toward reconciliation.

It was the ultimate bitter irony to Uther that his own daughter was outed as a sorceress. Morgana had kept her secret hidden for a very long time – a very few like Arthur and Gwen and Gaius held in confidence– until she grew frustrated with Uther’s shortening temper and thinning tolerance on the subject. During one of their many heated arguments, she finally had enough, and stood before him brave yet trembling, as she made her confession. Arthur had been on an overnight patrol when it happened, but the repercussions were felt through the entirety of Camelot for many weeks after.

Once that dust settled… somewhat, she began to flaunt it, daring him to have her banished like he’d done every other magic-user in the kingdom. Much as he sided with Morgana – that her father acted a hypocrite by not holding her to the same laws as his other subjects – Arthur did feel some pity for Uther at the situation. Morgana could be merciless when she felt wronged (he still has a knife scar on his forearm to this day; the result of a ‘borrowed’ frock and some unfortunate target practice).

Finally, in a last act of defiance – and with Ygraine’s backing – she insisted that she needed to leave Camelot and travel to the Isle of the Blessed. There to learn to control her wild powers and to understand their limits and to seek knowledge of the Old Religion and the source of her abilities.

Uther’s objection is not just about the magic. Arthur has gleaned that there’s someone on that solitary, ancient place of magic that Uther is specifically concerned about Morgana associating with, but he’s stayed tight-lipped on the subject. His warnings, before she left, were vague and exaggerated cautions about the evils of sorcery and those who practice it.

At the time, Ygraine’s illness had already left her bedridden and silent for long stretches, so her support for Morgana had been largely non-verbal. But even today his mother can cow Uther with just a flinty-eyed glare, and nearly a year and a half ago, she’d thrown the brunt of her temper at him, until he’d finally, reluctantly, acquiesced – agreeing to let Morgana leave.

Ygraine’s backing of her half-daughter is only one of the many things that he knows has driven a wedge between his parents. Of course, he finds it rather ridiculous of Uther to claim affront, considering his own faithlessness; his ultimate act of betrayal which resulted in Morgana’s very existence. Though, Ygraine made sure he faced the consequences of that quite publicly, naming her a daughter of Uther and Vivienne and half-sister to Vivienne’s first daughter in the court records. (It was that half-sister, a woman named Morgause, who had reached out to Morgana to invite her to come to the Isle. Arthur’s never met her, but hers is another name that Uther scowls when he hears and cannot speak without grinding his teeth).

Despite the chasm that’s grown between them over the years, Arthur is certain that Uther and Ygraine do still love one another. His mother forgave his father for his philandering long ago, and loves Morgana as her own, but there’s other history between them – secrets that are only ever referred to in hushed voices and with sly wordplay – that Arthur’s never been privy to, and likely never will. He sometimes wishes they’d open up to him fully, that he might help to mend that gap.

He remembers days in his boyhood when the four of them were nothing more than a happy, loving family. It’s silly to yearn for those easier days, but sometimes he can’t help doing so. Now though, he forces his thoughts away from idle daydreams and considers his upcoming task instead.

Essetir is a kingdom that welcomes magic. A large majority of the druids and other folk with sorcerous talents who’d been forced from Camelot’s demesnes had taken refuge there once Balinor had ousted the warlords and the treacherous King Cenred.

Arthur knows very little of magic. He doesn’t even know if the Old Religion that Morgana is studying is the same type of magic that sorcerers in Essetir practice. He’s heard – mostly from Gaius, who’s been sneaking him brief, sparse lessons on the subject for a few years – that there’s cooperation between the druids of Essetir and those on the Isle of the Blessed, but he doesn’t know what that means.

Of course, it’s exactly the kind of information his father will want him to suss out from this arriving prince. And thinking of his secret task of the next few weeks, Arthur changes direction, deciding to seek out his squire and his manservant and a few others to make some arrangements.

A joust, tournaments, weapons competitions, training with the knights, not to mention hunting trips and other excursions should be plenty to keep a foreign prince distracted and off his guard. Not to mention, allow Arthur to succeed in his assignment.


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur steps out into cool grey of an early spring morning. Remnants of winter still linger in the dark corners and he tugs his padded jacket closer against the chill. He hurries down the steps, out of the castle’s shadow and into the sun. Uther is already there, gathered along with a bevy of nobles and counsellors and many of Camelot’s staff, ready to greet the arrival of a foreign king.

It surprises Arthur when he realizes there are no carriages in the train of horses and wagons that are slowly making their way into the courtyard. Leading the caravan is a proud looking man wearing a crown. He’s bearded and has a somber expression on his face, his eyes seem wary. He sits astride a massive black destrier, who comes to a halt before Uther and stands placid as an old mare while the king dismounts. He touches the horse between its velvety nostrils, before nodding to a young stable boy who has run up, ready to take the reins.

Balinor steps forward then, coming to stand before Uther. His father, he notices, is stood on the lowest stair instead of the ground, forcing the other king to look up at him, and he mentally scoffs at his father’s pettiness. Balinor seems to pay it no mind; he bows regally and then meets Uther’s guarded expression with ease.

“King Uther, well met.” He extends a hand.

To give his father credit, Uther only hesitates a trice before reaching out to clasp Balinor’s arm. “King Balinor. Welcome to Camelot.”

“My thanks for your invitation, Uther. I look forward to the opportunity to talk of peace between ourselves and the rest of the Southern kingdoms.”

“I as well,” Uther agrees, and he does sound genuine.

Balinor looks around a moment, adding with a smile. “The kingdom prospers, Uther. Thought it has been many years since I’ve last stepped foot in Camelot, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look better.”

For just the briefest of moments Uther blinks and seems at a loss for words. He’s a gifted statesman though and he recovers quickly. “Thank you, Balinor.” He doesn’t even sound grudging as he says, “I have heard the same said of Essetir.”

They continue their discussions, quite amiably if expressions are to be believed, about the changes the years have brought to both kingdoms. Arthur, spared for a few minutes until he’ll likely be called upon, takes the opportunity to try to identify Essetir’s prince.

Servants bustling around them, busy and coordinated as ants, Arthur turns his attention from the kings to the rest of Balinor’s party. There’s a small group of men who rode behind Balinor that are dressed in armor and bearing deep blue cloaks and tabards with the silver stag and unicorn emblem of Essetir. He assumes they’re knights, although their armor is a bit crude, slightly unmatched, and one of the men doesn’t appear to have sleeves on his chainmail or gambeson. He’s tall, rather massively built and when he bends an arm to gather a pack from the back of his saddle, the flex of his bicep suggests the reason for the lack of sleeves. Arthur glances over at Leon, who’s at the head of Camelot’s formation of the King’s honor guard to the far side of Uther. He thinks this big man might have an inch or two on him.

There are two others next to the big man and Arthur wonders if one of them is the prince. They’re both handsome, dark-haired; one with longer locks than the other and the scruff of a beard. The three men are all talking with each other and looking around curiously.

As he studies them, he feels a tap at his shoulder. He turns, realizing that someone has stepped up to his side. 

“Your pardon,” the man says.

Arthur gives him a cursory once-over, the stranger’s presumption at approaching a prince for assistance inviting curiosity. He’s got mink-dark, shaggy hair, rather prominent ears and cheekbones, and some of the bluest eyes Arthur’s ever seen. He’s dressed oddly – different than any of the other pages and maids bustling about – in a simple, belted tunic and trousers with a plain overcoat, and a strange scarf wrapped ‘round his neck. There's a pack over his shoulder though, so Arthur assumes he's likely someone’s personal manservant.

“You can follow the others,” he gestures to where a steady line of both Camelot and Essetir servants are carrying baggage and crates into the castle.

The man's mouth falls open and he squints, looking puzzled.

Arthur frowns. Is he daft? “The other staff,” he points again, speaking slowly. “Follow them into the keep. Someone will tell you where your master is staying. Ask anyone in the Pendragon colors,” he instructs and then turns away, looking to see if there's anyone else standing by both kings that might indicate who this son of Balinor is.

“Arthur!' Uther calls, beckoning him over.

Opportunity now past, he jogs over quickly to stand at his father's side.

Uther puts a hand on his shoulder. “My son, Prince Arthur.”

Balinor reaches out and Arthur clasps his forearm, gripping firm. “It's good to meet you, Arthur Pendragon.”

“You as well, King Balinor.”

Pulling his arm back, Balinor turns as he says, “I'd like to introduce you to my son, Prince Merlin.”

Arthur follows his gaze, but the only person standing in the direction Balinor faces is the dwaddling servant. He's still not moved and looks to be rummaging, one-handed, through the satchel he carries. When he draws his hand out, Arthur lets out a low groan and barely refrains from cursing aloud.

He's holding a royal circlet.

Though smaller than Balinor's crown, it's similarly styled and fashioned in burnished silver with fanciful stag horns wrought in the design and there's no mistaking what it signifies. He watches as the man, the _prince_, places it upon his head and then trots over to stand beside Balinor... his father.

The brief regard he passes over Arthur is quite flinty-eyed. He introduces himself to Uther first, the epitome of regal grace, and then turns to face Arthur and bows his head. “Prince Arthur,” he says, and the twist of his mouth and those drawn in brows telegraph his distaste.

Arthur inclines his head in return. “Prince Merlin,” he manages without biting off the name too sharply.

Uther says something else about escorting them to their rooms and waiting refreshments, but Arthur's not listening. He's too busy cursing himself for having already failed at his father's mission. He should've paid attention though, because when Uther marches back up the steps although Balinor and several other council members follow, Merlin remains standing there. Again, he's looking at Arthur rather expectantly.

Needing a distraction, Arthur waves over Leon and Elyan. “Merlin, allow me to introduce you to two of the finest knights of Camelot. This is Sir Leon and Sir Elyan. They will be at you and your men's disposal.”

Merlin makes another odd face at that, one that Arthur can't interpret, but he nods and offers them each an arm in turn. “Sir Leon. Sir Elyan. Good to meet you.”

The three men in Essetir colors that had first caught Arthur's attention have all dismounted and they approach as a group. “These are the knights of Essetir,” Merlin explains. “This is Sir Lancelot, Sir Gwaine and Sir Percival.”

Arthur greets them all the same as Merlin, though he doubts he's imagining that Gwaine and Percival's forearm grips are especially tight. From the big man, Percival, it might be just his strength, but Sir Gwaine – the one with the three-day old beard and the longer hair – definitely has a smirk playing about his lips when they cross arms. 

“Welcome to Camelot,” Arthur says. “I've made some arrangements for entertainment over the next days and weeks. A mixed tourney and a joust and some other sport and friendly competition. I look forward to getting to know each of you on the field and off.”

When that statement is only met with a few puzzled nods and what he thinks might even be a cringe (from Prince Merlin) he frowns, rather stymied by what to say next.

“Prince Arthur, excuse me,” a light voice breaks in.

He turns to see Guinevere standing a deferential distance behind him. “Oh, Guinevere, hello.” He puts a hand on her shoulder, practically propelling her forward. She's a better distraction than he could've hoped for. “Let me introduce you to Prince Merlin and his knights.”

Gwen looks a bit flustered as she gives a deep curtsy. “Uh, hello. I'm here to escort Prince Merlin to his quarters.”

He's not letting her get away that easily. “Guinevere is one of Camelot's best. Though I'm loathe to lose her services for the interim, she'll be looking after you for the duration of your stay.”

“Uh, yes.” Gwen says with a nervous titter. “Should you need anything, please don't hesitate to let me know. I am at your disposal.”

He makes the rounds of introductions again and is pleased to note that while Merlin's men don't seem to know what to make of _him_, they're all polite smiles and warm greetings to Gwen. Well, except for the third knight, the one called Lancelot. He steps forward and bows his head quite low. “It's lovely to meet you, my lady.” He takes her hand and makes the motions of a kiss over the back of it, mouth never quite touching skin. 

Gwen blushes as she draws her hand away slowly and lowers her gaze demurely. “I am no lady, but thank you, Sir Knight.” She raises those knuckles to her mouth and presses them against her lips a moment, looking adorably flustered. Though, her doe-brown eyes seem to regard him with an equal amount of interest.

Arthur raises a brow and he looks to Merlin. Who looks back with a similar expression. For the first time, they seem to be of one mind.

“Uh yes, Guinevere, perhaps you and Leon and Elyan could escort the knights of Essetir to their chambers and show them around the castle?”

She clears her throat, seeming to come back to herself. “Oh, uh, yes of course, Arthur.” The hand flies back up to her mouth and even her ears seem to darken with a flush. “I mean, my lord.”

He turns enough to wink at her so that no one else can see, and she catches the gesture with the briefest scowl that promises vengeance. Still, she's smiling bright when she steps forward and says, “If you'll follow me, gentleman.”

Lancelot is the first to fall into step behind her, eager as a pup, when she starts up the stairs to the keep, and Arthur doesn't miss the amused grins exchanged between Gwaine and Percival. Even Leon looks charmed as he moves into place behind them, although Elyan doesn't seem to know what to think, if the furrow in his brow can be trusted. Watching them for a few moments, Arthur notices that while Lancelot is clearly hanging on Gwen's every word, the other four are making brief introductions that segue to easy chatter. Elyan is already laughing at something Gwaine says as they disappear through the castle doors.

When they're out of sight, Arthur glances around and realizes that except for a few servants and guards hauling away empty wagons and grooms leading the last few horses, he and Merlin are the only two left in the courtyard.

“Well,” he says, hoping he doesn't look as awkward as he feels, “as I've given over your maidservant for the time being, the least I can do is show you to your quarters.”

“Right. Yeah,” Merlin replies, and that unimpressed scowl is back on his face.

“Uh, can I take that for you?” He gestures to the satchel Merlin's still got looped over a shoulder.

Merlin shakes his head and says sharply. “No, thank you. I've got it.”

Almost too sharply. It piques Arthur's curiosity. Perhaps he's hiding something of interest in there? He adds it to his list of things he means to discover about this fellow prince.

He guides Merlin through the corridors mostly in silence, though he remarks on a few things that might be of interest. He points out the directions of the stables and the kitchens and the banquet hall and the throne room but otherwise they walk in silence until they reach the guest-wing.

“Here you are then,” he says when they stop outside a closed door. He gestures towards it rather inanely. “One of the finest rooms in Camelot.” He hesitates, unsure if he should open the door. It’s something a servant would do, yes, but is it appropriate for him as a prince?

Merlin blows out a sigh and practically pushes past him to enter the room. 

Well that’s that question answered, then.

Arthur peeks in after him and can see that the servants have already been by with Merlin's things and have laid out trays of refreshments. “I made some arrangements...” he begins haltingly while Merlin stands in the room looking about, taking it all in. “I thought perhaps, that is...if you're up for it after the feast tonight, that tomorrow we might do a bit of hunting.” He trails off.

“Oh,” Merlin's lips pinch together briefly, but he gives a jerky nod. “Uh yeah, sure. I suppose.”

Arthur frowns. It's not the eager committal he'd been hoping for. “Right... then. Right.” He waves a hand over his shoulder. “I'm just in the east wing,” he explains – probably quite poorly – providing the directions to his room. “Or, uh, just ask any servant. Any of them will help you out. And, of course Gwen will also be on hand, should you need anything.” He lets his rambling trail to silence. “I'll just... see you at dinner then.”

“Right. Yeah.” Merlin merely nods again.

He's certainly not giving Arthur much to go on. With a stilted smile, he backs up through the door into the hall and closes it behind him. He slumps heavily against the wall opposite Merlin’s door and purses his lips on a heavy exhale. “Well this is going splendidly already,” he mutters to himself.

After a too-short visit with his Mother, Arthur finds that he’s got unexpected free time in the afternoon. He’d originally planned on sitting with her through the mid-afternoon and sharing a meal; unfortunately, the after-effects of her exertions yesterday left her worn and bedridden today. She’d smiled at seeing him but couldn’t speak, and the hand he held onto for a few minutes pressed no firmer than an infant’s feeble grip. Much needed rest certainly outweighed his desires to keep her company.

Despite the royal guests, he’s also got no crown business until the feast later that night (giving them time to rest and refresh after their travels). Still, he doesn’t feel he should shirk all duty, so Arthur decides to check-in with Leon to ensure that the men from Essetir have been settled and get his opinion on the earlier introductions.

He’s walking a corridor in the southern section of the castle – where the knights are given quarters – when a raucous laugh echoes into the hallway, catching his attention. He stops outside a door that’s been left open about a finger’s span, like someone meant to shut the door but didn’t ensure it closed behind them. The room doesn’t belong to any of Arthur’s men; it seems it’s been given over for the use of their guests.

“Well, we can’t complain about the digs,” a voice says. It only takes Arthur a moment to recognize that it’s the Essetir knight, Sir Gwaine.

“Too right,” and that comes from Sir Percival. “Definitely a notch up from what we’re used to at home. Could get used to this.”

There are some rustling sounds, and then an affronted, “Hey!”

And that’s Merlin.

He continues his protest. “None of you have been wanting for comfort and full bellies. Now you suddenly can’t live without fancy rooms and pretty maidservants? A few hours in grand Camelot and you’ve all gone soft?”

There’s more laughter.

A fourth voice – which by default is Sir Lancelot – says, “Why’re you all looking at me?”

Still more laughs. Even Arthur can’t hold back a grin at that.

“Tell me, Lancelot. Have you already made plans to meet up with the charming Guinevere later?” Scuffling sounds follow Gwaine’s question and Arthur can picture shoulders being jostled and playful rough-housing. He’s seen it enough among his own men.

“Well, not exactly,” Lancelot admits. “But she did mention I might see her tonight at the feast, as she’ll be serving the royal table.”

“Merlin will just have to put in a good word for you,” Gwaine suggests. “Hell, maybe I’ll have him put in a good word for me too.”

No mistaking the sound of a bare hand slapping flesh; someone got smacked.

“Ow! Percival,” Gwaine bites out, mock-affronted. “Let Lancelot do his own dirty work.”

A second slap follows and Gwaine yelps again. That bawdy laughter follows.

Merlin and his men are certainly a rowdy bunch. Arthur can understand why Leon and Elyan seemed to integrate with them so immediately.

“So, how ‘bout that prince then?” Gwaine says and Arthur goes still, breath catching in his throat. “Not bad to look at if big blue eyes and golden hair and a strong jaw are your type.”

A rush of heat flows up Arthur’s throat and floods his cheeks.

“_Gwaine_.”

That’s Merlin, and there’s a warning tone in his voice.

“Just teasing you, Merlin.” Gwaine replies, sounding not at all chided. “You’ve got to admit though, he’s pretty as a princess.”

Lip curling, Arthur fights to hold back both a grimace and himself; it’s difficult not to just go charging into the room to challenge that upstart knight to a duel over his honor right then and there. To be fair, they obviously think they’re speaking freely, expecting privacy within a knight’s chambers, and have no idea that they’re being eavesdropped on, so he manages to restrain the urge. Still, he bristles and his fingers twitch helplessly at his side, where the hilt of his sword would rest.

“Oh, all right. Fine,” Merlin agrees reluctantly. “He’s definitely not hard to look at. But did you see when I first approached him to introduce myself? He took one look at me and dismissed me as a servant.” He lets out a noisy scoff. “Just because I’m not all cocked up in finery and wearing my crown, I must be beneath him.” Another derisive sniff. “What an arrogant prat.”

It seems he’s made _quite_ the impression on Essetir’s young prince… Arthur’s indignation becomes something more frustrated, that he can’t quite put a name too.

“And,” Merlin continues, “he wants to go hunting tomorrow. _Hunting_.” No mistaking the disdain.

“Just tell this bloke that hunting isn’t your idea of a good time and he can go on without you,” Gwaine suggests.

At the same time, Lancelot chides, “Merlin, you’re here to get to know the future ruler of a kingdom that borders yours. In aid of that, I’m sure you could put up with a few excursions that aren’t to your liking.”

“Besides,” Percival adds, “you’re good with a bow. You’ve taken down your fair share of game.”

Merlin’s heavy sigh is audible, even filtered through the crack of door. “I know, Percival, but I abhor the idea of hunting for sport. You know that. And, I can only imagine that a prince who lives in a castle such as this, with all these servants running about, has no need to supply game to feed his people. Plus, he spoke of other _entertainments_,” he puts a distasteful emphasis on the word, “like tournaments and jousts and sparring contests. Frankly, I don’t think he’s got any idea beyond his quite limited and quite martial world-view about what a prince might get up to besides killing and fighting.”

“Well, here’s your opportunity to share your perspective as well,” Lancelot offers heartily.

Gwaine guffaws. “Lancelot, my friend, you’re a bit of a dreamer. I suspect you just want things to go well so you get more of a chance to flirt with that lovely maidservant.”

Cue the boisterous laughter once again. Arthur wonders if he should take that as his own cue to leave. Before he can make up his mind, the laughter and teasing of Lancelot quiets and Percival speaks up again.

“His knights seem like good men. That Leon and Elyan especially.”

“Oh yeah,” Gwaine agrees. “I feel like we could throw back quite a few at the tavern with those two and have a bloody good time.”

“Please tell me you didn’t already start making wagers with them,” Merlin implores, sounding beleaguered.

“Nah,” Gwaine replies, cheekily. “Although, once we’re at the tavern there’s no telling what might happen.”

While Merlin lets out a wordless grumble, the others chuckle.

“I know you’re not much into martial sport, Merlin,” Percival states, “but I’d certainly like to test my mettle against that Sir Leon. Nice to come up against someone close to my own size. Er, height at least.”

“What the big man said. I’ve heard it rumored that Sir Elyan is one of the best swordsman in the kingdom. Sounds like he might be a fit challenge for me.”

“Gwaine, how are you already picking up rumors?” Merlin asks, exasperated. “We’ve barely been here two candlemarks.”

“Just another part of my charm,” is the retort. “Though, I’ve also picked up that your princess puts Sir Elyan to shame. Best in the Southern kingdoms, it’s said.”

Ignoring the jibe, Arthur can’t help but preen just a little bit, if that’s his reputation.

“Wonder if he’ll deign to compete alongside his men?” Lancelot says idly.

“I’d guess so,” Merlin states, and Arthur starts to wonder if his opinion is softening until he adds, “He seems the sort to like to show off. I’m assuming you’ll get the chance, if Arthur’s talk of upcoming events is accurate. I just hope he doesn’t expect me to joust.”

Someone – likely Gwaine – lets out a choked sort of laugh. “Least not on horseback, eh?” _Definitely_ Gwaine.

“Ugh,” Merlin groans exaggerated, while the others snicker mercilessly. “Knights. The lot of you. You’re all thick.” More of the scuffling sounds follow, and then a loudly protested, “Hey! You’re not allowed to lay hands on your prince!” Merlin barks out the words but he’s laughing at the same time.

“Got someone else in mind for that, don’t ya, Merlin!” And that’s Percival!

Arthur’s heard enough. The conversation is devolving into the kind of crude humor and roughing about he’s used to witnessing his men get up to in the tavern. And he feels hot and itchy around his collar for no reason he can figure.

He stalks away, back to his own chambers instead of going on to seek out Leon. The last thing he wants to hear is his own men speaking the praises of Essetir’s.

Frustration builds with each step.

How was he to know that Merlin wouldn’t care for hunts or tournaments? Every other prince he’s met – though granted that’s been only two – were equally fond of those types of activities.

And, what the hell was with the ‘pretty’ comments? Arthur’s already decided that if Gwaine lets out one slip of that ‘princess’ shite in his presence, he’ll just have to prove to the upstart knight that his reputation isn’t based on looks or status.

Almost without his volition, Arthur’s steps turn toward the practice fields. He’s pent up with irritation and other… feelings that he’s too hard-pressed to name. There’s always a ready knight or trainee or guardsman looking to improve their skills, and Arthur’s only too keen to offer them a challenge and vent his own frustrations at the same time. Even if the fields stand empty, he can bash about a sparring post until his arms ache and he’s too exhausted to try to figure out why his shoulders are tense and there’s such an odd pang in his chest.


	4. Chapter 4

The feast is just as extravagant as Arthur expected it would be. He knew his father would spare no expense to display the wealth and prosperity of Camelot to a foreign king. Particularly one like Balinor, with whom he shares some… uncomfortable history.

Arthur stays seated to Uther’s left, while Balinor – seated next to Uther – keeps Merlin to his right, so they have little opportunity to do more than nod at each other during the many-courses of the meal. He does keep an eye on the knights’ table throughout, where Essetir’s men are mingled amongst his. It’s clear they’re having a riotous time, if the raised cups, sloshing, free-flowing wine and picked-clean plates are any indication.

The kings keep up a stilted stream of conversation, though Balinor seems to make more of an effort than Uther. There’s no mention made of the past, and Arthur’s attention is wandering – curious about a low-voiced conversation happening between Gwaine and Elyan – when he hears Balinor ask quietly, “And may I inquire as to the health and well-being of your wife, Uther? I had hoped I might get to see her this evening.”

Fingers tightening on his knife, Arthur shoulders go taut and he waits with his breath in his throat – fearing that he’ll have to intervene to stay his father’s temper.

Oddly though, Uther just stares at his plate a moment and then picks up his goblet, swirling the remnants of wine in the cup and eyeing it like the claret liquid holds the answers. “She is as well as can be expected. It is as we knew it would be.”

Arthur frowns. How would Balinor know of his mother’s condition? As far as Arthur knew, Balinor was forced from Camelot well before Arthur’s birth and long before his mother ever showed signs of her slowly growing malaise.

However he knows, Balinor just nods and says gently, “I am sorry to hear that, Uther. If there were anything –”

Uther holds up a hand before he can finish making the offer. “Your own wife,” he says instead. “Is she well?”

Wise enough not to press the matter, Balinor simply nods and says, “Yes, she fares very well.” A wide smile follows that pronouncement.

On Balinor’s other side Arthur can see that Merlin has taken an interest in their conversation as well. He’s got a fond, lopsided grin on his face, and it pushes a faint dimple into his cheek.

“She was sorry she couldn’t accompany us, as she’d have enjoyed a visit, and she has friends in Camelot whom she’d like to catch up with.”

He wonders who that might be. Arthur knows very little about Queen Hunith, but he didn’t think she’d ever been to Camelot.

Before he can ask, Balinor is speaking on a different topic, mentioning the prosperity of farmland that crosses Camelot’s borders into Essetir. Apparently, it’s a safe enough topic to draw Uther’s gaze away from the rim of his goblet, and they return to a carefully balanced, too-polite chit-chat.

As the platters from the final course are cleared away by bustling servants and the wine continues to flow, Arthur watches as several of the knights get to their feet, mingling even more. Lancelot, he notices, has managed to find Gwen. She’s got her fingers toying with a loose curl framing her face and a bright smile and even from this distance he can see the way color has risen to her cheeks. Lancelot, for his part, is all shy, tentative grins and painfully polite distance, and clearly has eyes only for her. Arthur doesn’t know this knight well yet, but he does like what he’s seen (and heard) so far. Gwen certainly seems to share that opinion.

Arthur decides that he can be the bigger man and as the formalities of a state dinner give way to the more celebratory air, he takes up his cup, crosses behind both kings and takes a position at Merlin’s right shoulder.

Merlin looks up at him, brows rising over widened eyes.

Arthur nods over to the corner, where it appears that Gwen and Lancelot have tucked themselves a bit further out of sight behind a pillar, for privacy and soft-voiced conversation. “I do hope your knight has no plans on stealing away Camelot’s best maidservant,” Arthur says with a soft chuff of laughter.

Instead of sharing his amusement, Merlin scowls. “Is she some sort of property of Camelot,” he asks bitingly, “that she couldn’t freely leave if she chose to?”

“No, of course not,” Arthur snipes back, and then takes a breath to calm himself. “No,” he says again, flustered and unsure how they’re already at odds. “It’s just that her family is here. Her father is a local blacksmith and her brother, Elyan, is one of my best knights.” He sighs, suddenly weary. “I just meant…” he doesn’t know what he just meant, except that he’d thought it would be something to share a chuckle over.

Apparently realizing he took Arthur’s jest completely the wrong way, Merlin has the good grace to look chagrined. “Sorry, I… I think I misunderstood.” He makes a vague gesture in their direction. “She seems lovely and kind. I understand why you wouldn’t want her whisked away by some strange knight.”

As apologies go, it’s awkward and uncomfortable, but Arthur’s determined to do his best on behalf of his father and his kingdom, so he merely nods. “Yes, well, Sir Lancelot seems like a good man as well. And as much as I value her service, I want Guinevere to be happy. So, I mean, if she were to leave, I’d well… I’d not be happy of course, but.” He doesn’t finish the thought.

He slouches an elbow on the back of Merlin’s chair, feeling ungainly for how he’s just standing there, hovering and attempting to muddle through this painfully awkward conversation. He casts about for something else to say that won’t earn him Merlin’s ire.

For his part, Merlin is toying with a fork, scraping it lightly in patterns over a mostly empty plate.

“Oh!” Merlin says suddenly, “I’d been wondering, I mean, I meant to ask. I thought your sister, the Lady Morgana, was in Camelot. Is she not here?”

Arthur looks up hurriedly in his father’s direction, but luckily Uther doesn’t seem to have heard the question. He drags out the empty chair next to Merlin and sits down, lowering both his head and his voice. “It’s not a topic that’s suited for um, present company.” He gives a sly nod down the table.

Merlin frowns. “Oh? Why not?”

Is Merlin thick, Arthur wonders. How can he not understand the obvious cautions? “She’s not here, in Camelot,” he says tightly. “She’s away… at study. Not everyone here is _happy_ with that decision.”

Finally, it seems to dawn on Merlin that he’s referring to Uther, and his mouth opens in an ‘oh’ of pursed lips. He ducks his head and the tips of his ears go pink.

As Arthur watches, the color spreads over Merlin’s sharp cheekbones and down the long line of his neck. He clears his throat roughly when he realizes that he’s staring fixedly at the blush tinting Merlin’s skin from hairline to nape, and that he finds it rather appealing. In an effort to be conciliatory – not to mention to distract himself from the place where Merlin’s pinked collar bone peeks through a small gap between tunic and scarf – Arthur offers, “I can tell you about it, but not here.” A thought pops in Arthur’s head and he adds a bit archly, “Perhaps tomorrow. When we go _hunting_.”

Merlin’s expression goes even more abashed, if that’s possible. “Uh yes, Prince Arthur, about that,” he begins.

“It’s just Arthur,” Arthur insists magnanimously.

“Right, of course. And it’s just Merlin.” He gestures to himself.

Rather pointedly, Arthur adds, “I get so tired of the formalities of court. Don’t you?” It’s probably not fair of him – armed with knowledge he gained through unintentionally nefarious means – but he’s enjoying seeing Merlin squirm.

“Yes, absolutely,” Merlin agrees.

“So, you were saying about that hunting trip?” Arthur prods innocently.

“Yes, it’s just, I’m afraid I didn’t bring any of the right gear for that kind of activity.”

It’s almost too obvious, the way he’s scrambling for excuses to get out of going.

Arthur – happy to play into the charade – waves that away. “Oh, that’s no trouble at all, Merlin,” he says genially. “We’ve got plenty of extra equipment and weapons in the armory. And our staff will have no trouble accoutering you with whatever else you need.”

“I’m grateful for the offer,” Merlin hurries to say. “And if it were just a matter of regular gear or weapons. It’s just I’ve got a particular style that I use –”

“What do you favor?” Arthur interrupts. “Crossbow? I’ve got a lovely one you could borrow, carved from forty-year-old ash.”

“It’s a regional weapon, actually,” Merlin corrects. “A shorter, curved style of bow.” He sketches an arc in the air with one fingertip. “I know that the longbow and crossbow are more favored here and in most of the Southern kingdoms. The recurve is quite uncommon, so I don’t expect you’d have one of those on hand.”

Feigning a frown, Arthur rubs idly at his chin. “Oh, well yes, that would be quite uncommon.” He waits until he sees Merlin’s eyes widen just a fraction as he starts to think he may have succeeded. Then Arthur holds up a finger. “Wait a moment. Let me check with our Master of Arms. I know we do keep quite a few styles here in the keep. The knights and the armies may favor the crossbow for battle, but our gamekeepers use several types to stock the cellars, the longbow among them. So, it’s quite possible a recurve might yet be found. I’ll have my manservant check.” He adds the last with an eager grin.

The smile Merlin forces is made through clearly clenched teeth. “You needn’t go to all that trouble on my account,” he counters.

“Oh, I insist. It’s the least I can do. I’d be a poor host indeed if I couldn’t at least make the effort to accommodate you.”

Arthur imagines that if it were just a bit quieter in the great hall, he’d be able to hear Merlin’s teeth squeak together with as hard as he’s grinding them behind his false grin. “Thank you for your consideration, Arthur.”

“Think nothing of it. I want to ensure your stay here in Camelot is as comfortable as possible.” He’s pushing it a bit too far.

Merlin looks over at him, eyes starting to narrow with something akin to suspicion.

Arthur clears his throat. “Um, so bright and early tomorrow then? If you’d like, I can fetch you from your room myself. Or send a servant if you’d prefer.”

“No, that’s fine. If you’d like to do it yourself.” He’s not surprised that Merlin wants him to take that responsibility on himself. He’s starting to catch on that servants are the exception in Essetir, rather than the rule.

“Good,” Arthur agrees with a nod. Another – rather amusing – idea springs to mind. “Very good. Though, I know you came without a manservant, and I seem to have inadvertently given over Gwen’s attentions to your knights. Please allow me to offer you the services of mine. He’s very good.”

“That’s really not necessary.” Merlin can’t hide a grimace.

“Nonsense; I insist. You’ll find George very efficient.” He bites his lower lip to keep from smiling. George is efficient all right, and annoying as the day is long. “He’ll see to your needs and will ensure your room is made comfortable. Oh, and speaking of your room, how are you finding your accommodations?” He asks like it’s an afterthought, knowing very well that Merlin spent very little time in his own quarters after his arrival.

“It’s very nice. Camelot is … quite nice. The room is…” he trails off.

“Nice?” Arthur suggests with a playful smirk.

Merlin rolls his eyes, but he nods. “Yes, quite nice.”

“I’m glad,” Arthur says, and he finds genuinely means it.

And suddenly it’s awkward again. Where he felt like he’d had the upper hand before, now he’s at a loss for what else to say.

Luckily, the staid and heavy silence is broken a few moments later as Percival and Leon approach their table. The two are talking amongst themselves but break off when they stop in front of the table, and they both bow their heads.

“Sire, Prince Merlin.” Leon says, to each of them in turn.

Percival echoes him. “Sire, Prince Arthur.”

“Well, that’s going to get old,” Merlin grumbles, not quite under his breath.

Not to be shown-up, Arthur flicks his hand dismissively. “Oh, I agree. Just Arthur is fine. Formalities are for affairs of state and the throne room.” He swings the same hand in a brief arc, taking in the boisterous room. “I think we’re well past that here.” He looks to the knights. “If that’s agreeable to you?”

Leon nods, but Percival waits for Merlin’s lead. As Merlin inclines his head in approval, Percival adds, “Thank you, Arthur. We do get a bit worn on all the Sirs and Sires.” His grin is broad and friendly.

“I’m glad we’ve got that settled then. So, what is it we can do for you?” Arthur asks.

“Arthur,” Leon begins, “I know you’ve got plans for a melee and a tournament and some other contests, but we were wondering if you’d mind if our friends from Essetir joined us for training tomorrow?”

Arthur holds back the immediate frown; he’d been planning on bringing Leon and Elyan along on the hunt tomorrow. And he’d assumed some of Merlin’s men might come as well. Though, he doesn’t want to keep them from their fun, and it’s obvious the two men in front of him are eager to cross swords and test their prowess against one another. “Of course,” he allows magnanimously. “If that’s all right with you, Merlin?”

Although Merlin looks to be staring daggers at Percival – while Percival is looking about innocently, not meeting Merlin’s pointed gaze – he still says, “Yeah,” albeit rather slow and drawn out. “If that’s what my men would prefer.” It isn’t quite a question.

“Thank you, Sire,” Percival says, and the grin he shoots Merlin is pure devilry.

Leon doesn’t seem to quite know what to make of the exchange between his fellow knight and his liege, but he just bows his head happily, wavy curls tossing about wildly. “That’s wonderful. Thank you, Arthur. Thank you…” he stumbles a bit over skipping the honorific, “Merlin.”

They excuse themselves and return to their table.

Merlin snorts irritably. “I have a feeling we’re going to have to keep an eye on them.”

Arthur’s surprised to find himself chuckling in agreement. “Yes, I get the feeling that the four of them,”– he indicates Leon and Percival who’ve returned to the table with Gwaine and Elyan – “are going to be trouble. Perhaps I should warn the taverns ahead of time.”

As if he can hear them, Gwaine slams an empty tankard on the table and fumbles for the nearest pitcher. Merlin winces visibly. “That may not be a bad idea.” He turns to share that faintly crooked grin with Arthur.

Who finds himself smiling back.

Before things can get stilted or uncomfortable again, Arthur decides to end the night on this pleasant note. Besides, he _does_ want to rise early for the hunt. He stands, saying, “I think perhaps I’ll take a clue where my men will not, and admit I’ve had enough wine. I’m going to retire for the night. If you’ll excuse me, Merlin?”

Merlin looks like he wants to say something else for a moment, but whatever it is, he holds back. Instead he bows his head to Arthur. “Good night, Arthur.”

“Good night, Merlin.”

He makes intentions known to his father, and bids him and Balinor a good evening and stops by the knights table as well, giving some very general words of dismissal (as well as a few pointed words about going easy on their drink), and he’s followed on his way out with slurred toasts and nonsensical cheers (he thinks he feels droplets spatter on his back as well… from someone’s overly eager thrust of a flagon).

When he reaches the double-doors, Arthur pauses and looks back into the room at the steadily dwindling celebrants and finds his eye drawn back to Merlin. Who is sitting at the table, slouched back in his chair now with his chalice in hand, but he’s staring right at Arthur.

Arthur lifts his fingers just a fraction, and then – feeling foolish – hurries into the hall and to his chambers.

Dawn arrives the next morning and Arthur is roused with the sun.

“Good morning, my lord,” George barks out sharply as he snaps back the heavy curtains, letting light flood the room.

Though most mornings he’s sluggish and reluctant to get out of bed, pointedly ignoring the urging of his manservant, today Arthur finds himself eager to rise. Sitting up, he recalls his offer to Merlin of George’s services. “Uh, George. Not that I don’t appreciate your promptness, but why aren’t you aiding our guest?”

Disdain writ large across his face, George sniffs. “Prince Merlin did not wish to be roused, your highness. When I tried to wake him, he advised that he’d,”– he pauses a moment, then continues delicately – “see that my head was introduced to my posterior if I made any further overtures in that regard, sire.”

It’s nearly the most discomfited he’s ever seen his manservant. Apparently, Merlin is less of a morning person than he is.

Arthur hides his laugh in a cough. “Oh, well. You’ll have to forgive Prince Merlin, George. He’s from Essetir. You know some of these more provincial nobles. They don’t always appreciate proper treatment.”

George nods knowingly, like that makes any sort of sense.

“I’d already offered to fetch him before our hunt, George,” Arthur adds – despite the urge to send George back Merlin’s way to bother him some more – “So, please don’t worry about returning to his chambers.”

“Very good. Thank you, my lord.”

Hurrying through a hearty breakfast, he props open a window – much to George’s displeasure as it allows in dust – to get a feel for the crisp morning air and what the day might hold. The sky is cloudless blue, and already he can feel the faintest warmth of the horizon cresting sun on his bare skin, promising a spring morning as perfect as any he could ask for.

He rushes to dress himself, ignoring George’s huffing at the impropriety of it all (not a day passes that George doesn’t grumble – he seems to take as much pleasure in it as he does polishing brass) – although he allows George the ‘privilege’ of helping him shrug into his brown leather vest – Arthur adds a final instruction to have horses made ready. His pack and weapons have already been prepared by his squire, Morris, and he knows that by the time he’s collected Merlin, animals and gear will be waiting for them in the courtyard.

Leaving a flustered George behind, Arthur makes his way to the guest quarters and stops outside of Merlin’s room. There’s a tray waiting outside the door; apparently George couldn’t bring himself to abandon Merlin to his own devices entirely, even after being threatened. Arthur picks up the tray. The sausages are still warm, so he figures it’s still fine to serve to his guest.

Hands full, Arthur knocks on Merlin’s door with a few taps of his boot.

The response is a muffled, “G’way.”

“Merlin,” Arthur tries, a bit firmer. “It’s Arthur.”

A few minutes pass with no response other than odd shuffling noises and the occasional muttered curse. “Hang on!” Merlin finally calls out.

He sounds frantic, and for a moment Arthur’s tempted to just open the door to make sure he’s okay. But after another minute or two passes – filled with more of those same sounds of scrambling and swearing – the door finally opens, and Merlin stands there, propping an elbow on the frame. He looks… bedraggled, and that’s putting it nicely.

There’s a caginess to his expression, and Arthur’s starting to wonder if he had company last night. The thought makes his stomach churn for no discernable reason. When he looks past Merlin, though, there’s no sign of anyone else in the room. The bedcovers are rucked about and were clearly slept in, but the only clothes strewn about the floor appear to be Merlin’s from the feast.

Relieved, Arthur looks back to Merlin and his brows go up while his gaze goes down. Merlin obviously dressed in a rush – his tunic is on inside out and his belt isn’t notched properly – and his hair is sticking up on one side and pressed flat on the other. There are pillow creases still red on his cheek. Arthur obviously interrupted him trying to get a bit more sleep.

“Uh, good morning,” Arthur says. It’s likely too late to feign obliviousness to Merlin’s state of sleepy befuddlement, but he’s going to try. He pushes past Merlin, heading into the room. “I ran into George, your manservant,” he lifts the tray a fraction. “I assume you’ve not had breakfast. And, as we’ve an early morning hunt to get to…”

Merlin blinks slowly, looks from Arthur to the door like he has no idea how Arthur got there, and then he closes the door, easing it shut carefully.

With the curtains still drawn, it’s quite dim inside the room. Arthur sets the tray on a side table and then goes to the window to draw the draperies aside. The room floods with warm, color-dappled light.

A groan makes Arthur turn.

Merlin is blinking again, eyes squinty, while the rest of him looks vaguely green. And Arthur knows it’s not just from a sunbeam passing through the stained glass.

It’s not much of a leap to assume that Merlin must’ve retired to his room quite a bit later than Arthur did. He suspects that a visit to the knights table, and their endlessly flowing pitchers, also played a part. Giving in to some imp of the perverse, Arthur returns to the table and lifts the tray. He gives an appreciative sniff over the plateful of sausages and seared mushrooms and sliced meats and cheeses and then goes as far as to pull out a chair. “C’mon, tuck in.”

With a grimace and a bit of a wobble to his step, Merlin walks to the table. He sits down heavily but makes no move for anything on the tray.

“Oh,” Arthur says, “I’m sorry, Merlin. I forgot to have George ask if you’d prefer something else for breakfast. Smoked kippers perhaps? Or tripe? Our cook, Audrey, has a fair hand at tripe.”

Merlin closes his eyes and swallows forcefully. The greenish cast to his skin blanches even paler.

“Not hungry?”

Merlin shakes his head, moving it carefully like he’s afraid it will dislodge if he moves too fast.

Arthur’s been in that state more times than he cares to remember. There’s nothing worse than being forced into duty the morning after a night of excess. Taking pity, as he’s not _entirely_ a heartless bastard, Arthur slides the tray away. He does pour Merlin a cup of water though. “Here,” he suggests. “You’ll want to drink this at least.”

“Ugh, no more wine.”

“Just cold water,” Arthur promises. “Trust me, it’ll help.”

Merlin takes the proffered cup and sips at it slowly.

Arthur waits until he’s downed about half of it and then asks, “Bit of a rough night?”

“Yes,” Merlin admits on a heavy sigh, and even his voice is rough. “I was wrong.”

“Wrong? About what?”

“The knights. The four of them together. They’re _worse_ than trouble. Gwaine and Elyan,” he starts to explain then seems to realize leaving it there is sufficient.

It is. Arthur can fill in any scenario he likes, and he knows it’ll only come halfway close to what really happened. He makes a ‘tsking’ noise. “You were forewarned,” he chides, but not without humor. “I think you only have yourself to blame in this case.”

Merlin scowls but doesn’t deny it. “Yes, well. It’s not like I’ve never been drinking with Gwaine before. I just didn’t anticipate how much carousing he could get up to with the likes of Elyan urging him on.”

Because he’s only somewhat sympathetic – Merlin did bring this on himself – and because he had been looking forward to a hunt today, Arthur offers, “Shall we postpone our little excursion a bit longer?”

Expression going dreamy, like he’s had a branch stretch in his direction while sinking deep into thick mud, Merlin looks over at the bed, and then down at the table, and then at his own reflection in the rippling water in his cup, and finally up at Arthur. “No,” he says with a regret-heavy sigh. “No, I’m fine.”

“You sure?” Arthur asks. He really doesn’t want to make Merlin miserable.

“Yeah,” Merlin nods. “All that I’d do is sleep a bit longer and I probably wouldn’t feel any better for it.” He adds with forced cheer, “Maybe a brisk morning ride will do me some good?”

Arthur laughs and claps him – albeit it lightly – on the shoulder. “Well, either that or you’ll end up puking in the saddle. Either way, you’re sure to feel better after.”

Caught off guard, by the jest or the gesture Arthur doesn’t know, Merlin barks out an odd snort of nasally laughter. “Right. Well, we’ll have to see which. If you’ll just give me a few minutes,” he plucks at his inside-out tunic.

“Of course.” Arthur crosses to the window.

Merlin disappears behind the privacy screen.

He listens to the sounds of Merlin changing clothing and tending to his mornings ablutions, tracking each action by the sounds of cloth rustling and a belt slapping the floor and water splashing as it’s poured into a basin. All the while Merlin continues to mutter under his breath.

“There,” Merlin says after several minutes and Arthur turns to see him stepping out from behind the screen.

Arthur gives him another of those head-to-toe once-overs. He’s dressed almost identical to the way he’d been yesterday, although today his tunic is red while his scarf is blue. It’s almost Pendragon red, and Arthur finds he likes the color on Merlin.

Realizing he’s been staring overlong, Arthur clears his throat and walks back over to the table. He refills the cup and then offers it. “Um, if you’re still feeling unwell, I could go to our physician, Gaius, for some willow-bark.”

Merlin accepts the drink, finishing it in just a few swallows, and nods when Arthur lifts the pitcher to offer another refill. He drains that one as quickly and after emptying the second cup, Merlin lets out a loud, lip-smacking gasp. “That’s better. Thank you.” He takes another long breath. “Oh, and Gaius. Yes. I’ve already been to see him, actually. Yesterday.”

“Oh? Is something the matter?” For a few dark seconds he wonders if Merlin suffers some malady.

“No,” Merlin replies, confusion wrinkling the corners of his eyes. “Why would anything be the matter?”

“You just said that you visited the court physician,” he waves a hand, like he’s connecting the two things with the motion.

“Oh,” Merlin says, and then, “Oh!” again. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew. I know Gaius, quite well actually.”

“You do?”

“Well, yes. He visits Ealdor several times a year. That’s the town where my mother is from,” he adds, likely at Arthur’s puzzled frown.

Arthur has always known that Gaius travels every so often, usually once a season, to restock his stores and offer his services to outlying villages and to visit old friends. He just never realized that some of these friends were denizens of Essetir. “I wasn’t aware of that,” Arthur admits. “He knows your mother then?”

Merlin nods. “And my father as well.”

This time it’s Arthur who says, “Oh,” in that faintly perplexed tone of voice.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin goes on. “I assumed you knew. Gaius was the one who talked my father into going to Ealdor, back when he was…” he trails off, looking suddenly uncomfortable.

“Right,” Arthur says with a curt nod. “When he was forced to leave Camelot.”

Merlin bites his lip and nods back. “Yeah.”

“So, you don’t need to see Gaius then?” Arthur asks, turning the conversation away from such fraught territory.

“Oh, no.” Merlin waves the offer away. “In fact, if I did go see Gaius about this, he’d probably yell at me for over-indulging. He always says I can’t handle my wine.”

And although Arthur manages a quick smile at that, it’s just as startling as everything else Merlin has said. It implies that Gaius knows Merlin very well; enough to have opinions on his capacity for drink. But it makes sense when he considers it further. If Gaius visits Ealdor every time he’s away from Camelot – usually for a week or more – that’s plenty enough time to get to know its Prince. He does wonder if Gaius has been visiting since Merlin was born. As Gaius was at his own mother’s bedside for Arthur’s birth, he doesn’t quite know how to feel about sharing that with Merlin.

“Well,” Merlin claps his hands together loudly. “Should we get going, then?”

Arthur startles, drawn from the darkening trail his mind is dragging him down. “Yes,” he agrees. “I suppose we should.” He turns toward the door, then pauses. “Oh, did you want breakfast?”

Merlin shakes his head. “I don’t think I could manage.” He looks past Arthur, at the laden tray. “Err, maybe I’ll just take along one of those little loaves to nibble on?” he concedes.

Arthur tosses him one.

Merlin fumbles it a moment, then manages to catch it between his arm and his chest. “Thanks.” He goes to the door and picks up the satchel that he’d carried yesterday, tucking the loaf inside. “All set.”


	5. Chapter 5

A pair of grooms wait in the courtyard with their mounts. One holds the reins of Arthur’s dark bay stallion and Arthur accepts them with a nod of thanks. Next to them, the second groom is smoothing a hand over the flaxen forelock of a dainty looking sorrel mare. Merlin ties his pack onto the mare’s saddle and looks over her back at Arthur and his mount.

“He’s a handsome fellow,” Merlin remarks, nodding to the massy, shaggy-legged destrier.

Arthur pats the stallion on his broad face, stroking gently down the white stripe that starts just at the line of the horse’s ears and trails down between his eyes to his velvety nostrils. “He’s one of my favorites from the royal stable. He’s called Virtue.”

As if aware he’s being spoken of, Virtue whickers, low and throaty. The mare responds with a strident whinny.

Merlin looks amused for no reason that Arthur can fathom. “Virtue?” he repeats.

“Yes,” Arthur answers, fighting affront. “All the stallions in the royal stables are given names of knightly traits. Loyal, Chivalry, Truth, Honor,” he explains, giving several examples. Still, Merlin is smiling. “Something funny about that?” he can’t help biting out at last.

“No,” Merlin shakes his head, tossing it almost as a horse might. “No, it’s not that. Just, kind of a strange coincidence.” He gestures between the animals. “My mare. Her name’s Patience.”

Arthur thinks on it for just a moment, before he catches on. When he does he chuckles. “That _is_ quite the coincidence.” He’s also impressed; Merlin is clearly well read if he’s familiar with obscure Latin poetry. He looks the mare over again, noting the delicately dished face, the slim muzzle and the large eyes. Even her coat is a deeper hued red than he’s seen, and its offset by four white socks and stockings of varying length.

“She’s uh, quite… exotic looking.” He settles on exotic and very diplomatically doesn’t add that she appears too fine-boned to be anything other than a gentle lady’s palfrey.

Merlin cups a hand around her cheek and nods proudly. “It’s a good description. She’s been bred with some very exotic stock that came in from across the eastern sea. I know she looks rather slight,” he adds, with the air of someone who’s had to make this defense more than once, “But you’d be surprised at her speed and strength.”

It’s difficult not to scoff. Virtue is broad through the chest with a long barrel and equally thick haunches. He’s got three hands – at least – on the little mare, and through combat or jousts, he’s never let Arthur down. At the same time, there’s something in the mare’s doe eyes and the proud arc of her crest and the flag of her take that tells him Merlin may not be exaggerating.

He notices, in his final once-over of the mare, that there’s a peculiar looking bow secured to the cantle of Merlin’s saddle. He can’t help but grin a bit viciously. “Looks like we were able to accommodate you on that recurve after all.”

Merlin eyes it a long moment and gives a piss-poor attempt at a sincere smile. “Uh yes, you did. Right… um. Thank you for that.”

Arthur chuckles. 

He mounts up. “C’mon, Merlin. Let’s get out there while the game is still abed.”

“Right,” Merlin agrees. He may look about as thrilled as a man going to his own execution, but he gets into his saddle with ease.

Arthur leads them out of the keep and through the lower town to the western-most gates. Once they’ve put the walls behind them, he suggests, “Bit of a run?”

Finally, Merlin’s grin looks genuine. “Oh yes,” he agrees.

“To that far tree?” He points to a solitary oak in the middle of a field, some half a mile away.

“You’re on,” Merlin agrees.

“On my mark?”

Merlin nods again. It’s a bit distracting to watch him gather his reins and shift forward in the saddle, those blue eyes going intent, focused.

“Right then,” Arthur says. He draws up his own reins, feels Virtue sense his intentions, tensing beneath him, and then lets his arm fly down with a shout of, “Mark!”

The stallion lunges forward, Arthur pressing heels tight into his barrel.

Merlin lets out a squawk of protest, but in his periphery, Arthur sees him urge the little mare forward with his own boot-tap, and she bounds ahead like a startled deer.

Before Arthur knows it, she’s galloping right alongside.

They’re neck and neck for the last half of the distance to the tree and Arthur urges Virtue faster. He leans far over his thick neck, wind-tossed mane slapping at his face, and gives the horse his rein. He can feel the stallions last burst of effort, it rocks him in the saddle, but still Merlin’s Patience keeps up.

As they near the tree her nostrils are distending and she’s blowing hard, but she’s edging past Virtue. Beneath him, Virtue starts to flag. Arthur drives heels into flanks again, but the animal seems to have lost interest in winning. When they pass the leafless oak, Merlin and his mare are a full body-length ahead and Merlin’s lets out a triumphant whoop.

They jog the horses around the tree several times to let them ease back to a more sustainable pace, and once the animals have cooled, Arthur waves Merlin over to ride at his side again.

“Told you,” Merlin manages, and he sounds as out of breath as his horse was. His eyes are bright, his skin wind-pinked and his cocky grin is… rather breathtaking.

“Your mare cheated, you know,” Arthur accuses as soon as Merlin comes abreast of him, letting that thought distract him from his odd fixation on Merlin’s smile.

Merlin’s snort sounds rather horsey too. “My mare cheated?”

“Yes,” he insists. “Virtue held back at the end. She used her feminine wiles on my poor stallion and apparently he decided to be chivalrous.” Still, he pats the big animal on the neck consolingly.

“Feminine wiles?” Merlin echoes. As if it were planned, Patience chooses that moment to toss her head and whicker. Virtue responds by arching his neck, blowing out showily and stepping into his trot with high knees.

Merlin looks from one horse to the other and then throws his head back and laughs.

It’s an inviting laugh, contagious. Arthur’s helpless to do anything but join in.

He’s having fun, he realizes. More fun than he expected.

“At least our horses like each other,” Merlin says, once he gets his breath back and swipes a forearm over his eyes.

Arthur’s silent a moment. Let Merlin think the humor still has hold of him. In truth, he’s sobered by the remembrance that befriending Merlin is his _duty_… not just happenstance. He wishes that weren’t the case, that they were coming by this naturally. His father will be proud, of course, but the deception grates at him.

If his wide smile becomes tight or his eyes narrow slightly, he figures Merlin won’t notice. “It’s a good start,” he replies.

They fall silent after that, but it’s companionable rather than stilted, and Arthur gets them back on the road.

They lope the animals another few leagues before Arthur finally reins in. “Through here,” Arthur points before guiding his horse into the trees. “There’s a stretch of forest in the Darkling woods that I favor for hunting.”

Merlin makes a noncommittal noise but follows gamely enough. When they dismount in a clearing, he’s quiet and his face is dour. He ties his horse and begins to unpack the borrowed bow and his satchel with abrupt, jerky motions. His earlier levity seems to have vanished and Arthur suspects he knows why.

Arthur’s torn. He could continue this. He does enjoy hunting after all. What harm in making Merlin traipse through the woods a few hours?

At the same time, the guilt he’s already feeling about his deception towards the potential of their burgeoning friendship makes him think that kind of pettiness is beneath him.

The thoughts war within him while he tethers Virtue and readies his own gear. Laying the crossbow over a shoulder, he turns to Merlin who’s fighting with a quiver of long arrows and its tangled strap.

“You’re not actually fond of hunting, are you?” he states bluntly.

Merlin looks over at him, startled. “Erm,” he hesitates. “I understand the need for it.”

It’s a diplomatic response, but not the truth.

“Of course,” Arthur agrees. “But I mean, as a sport. A way to pass the time. C’mon, the truth. You aren’t fond of it at all.”

With a sigh, Merlin shakes his head. “No. I’m really not.”

“Then why not just say so?” Arthur asks. It’s less a chastisement and more a curiosity.

“Um,” Merlin gestures clumsily, nearly upending the quiver. “Well, you’d gone to all the trouble.”

“It’s no trouble to change arrangements, Merlin. You are supposed to enjoy yourself here, and to get to know Camelot. It wouldn’t really do well for our fathers to work towards peace while you’re miserably putting up with events I have planned that are supposed to entertain you.” He gentles the chiding with a sideward grin.

“I appreciate that, Arthur,” Merlin replies, ducking his head and looking rather abashed. “Erm, as for the hunting, I _can_ appreciate doing it if there’s a need. But, just for sport…” he shrugs.

Arthur hurries to disabuse him of that notion. “Well, maybe it will ease your mind to know that everything I kill goes back to the palace kitchens. What’s not used there, to feed those in the keep, is shared out amongst those in need in the lower town. I’m not out here for trophies, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Merlin perks up a bit at that. “Oh, well that’s good then.”

“Er, that’s not to say I wouldn’t take a trophy,” he must admit, as there have been a couple of very well racked stags that have fallen until his crossbow. “Stag’s antlers can make quite a fine prize.” He doesn’t add that they’re useful too; he assumes Merlin knows that.

With another, looser, shrug Merlin says, “Well, so long as you’re not only in it for the thrill of the chase or some other such nonsense.” His nose wrinkles at the thought before he adds a bit sheepishly, “And I suppose it would be nice to have fresh venison.”

Grinning now, Arthur nods. “Absolutely. The venison stew that comes from the palace kitchens is sublime.”

“As good as the tripe?” Merlin asks with an arched brow and a teased curve to his own grin.

“Oh, well, nothing’s quite as good as Audrey’s tripe,” Arthur banters back. “I can only hope you get a chance to try it yourself. But, I supposed the stew is a close second.”

He should look away, but Arthur can’t seem to drop Merlin’s playful gaze. It’s so inviting and… beguiling. Eventually though, he tears his eyes away, looking to the crossbow in his hands. “Yes, um. Well, if you’re up for it then, I suppose we should…”

It’s a bit of a relief to see that Merlin looks equally out of sorts. He’s back to fumbling with the quiver. “Yes, I am. I mean, I’d hate to deprive anyone of the opportunity to have that stew.”

“Right, of course.”

Feeling bold, Arthur hurries to ask, “Perhaps you could also show me how to use that bow? I’ve trained on a longbow, of course, but never tried the recurve.”

Merlin’s expression goes odd – not something Arthur can interpret – then that half smile pushes back into his cheek and he nods. “Yes, I can definitely do that.”

Maybe it’s a bit strange as peace offerings go, but Arthur sighs in relief. “I’d like that. Thank you.”

Morning passes into early afternoon; they spend it creeping slowly through the woods, ducking branches and communicating with silent hand signals and low whispers. For as much as Merlin says he’s not fond of the task, he’s as good a tracker as Arthur. They spy a small herd of doe trailing leggy fawns and let them pass unmolested.

Arthur shows Merlin the basics of the crossbow – which is quite simple, really – and Merlin gives him a startlingly hands-on lesson with the recurve, positioning Arthur’s arms and even steadying his hips with a confident hand to correct his stance.

It’s perhaps _too_ good, as Arthur manages a clean kill shot on a large stag, which brings an end to the impromptu lesson. Merlin seems genuinely pleased at Arthur’s success, and he doesn’t shy away from helping dress out the deer or in carrying it back to their waiting horses.

As Arthur’s giving the ropes tying the carcass to the saddle one final tug, Merlin coughs to get his attention. Arthur looks over his saddle to see Merlin already in his; he’s twisting his reins in his hands somewhat restlessly.

“Um, I just wanted to say thank you for today, Arthur.” He adds, almost reluctantly, “It was more fun than I expected.”

It’s in Arthur to reply with a bit of a smarmy, ‘I told you so,’ – he even wonders if that’s what Merlin is expecting – but he doesn’t want to spoil the easy détente they seem to have reached. Instead he nods. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

They’re halfway back to Camelot, guiding their horses over the small span of a stone bridge when Merlin says, “Oh, I meant to ask you. Do you do any fishing?” He gestures to the shallow, thin stream trickling below.

“Very little. But I have enjoyed it when I did.”

Merlin smiles eagerly. “Well, that _is_ something I like doing. Maybe we could do that in place of the next hunting trip?”

Feeling something flutter in his stomach, Arthur bites back on a grin when he realizes that means Merlin wants to share something he’s fond of with Arthur.

“You know, Merlin,” he replies, trying – and probably failing – not to look too pleased, “I think I’d like that.”

Things fall quiet again between them for a long stretch, but it’s comfortable and makes for an enjoyable ride. Arthur finds himself wishing they didn’t need to be back to Camelot just yet. He’s tempted to suggest continuing their excursion, even if it’s just to ride together for a while longer, but the game hanging over Virtue’s haunches can’t be left to spoil.

They’ll have plenty of opportunities over the coming weeks though, and that thought settles the restlessness.

The castle comes into view, though still a few miles off, when Merlin speaks again. “Oh, Arthur. I meant to ask you. Last night during dinner, you said you’d explain about Morgana today, if I wanted?”

He had suggested that, hadn’t he?

“Right, yes,” Arthur agrees.

“Do you mind if I ask? I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”

Arthur lifts the hand not loosely holding his reins. “It’s no trouble for _me_,” he explains. “It’s just not a topic my father is keen to be reminded of.”

“Do they not get along?”

“No, it’s not that…” Arthur pauses, gauging the distance to the keep and the speed they’re going. He’s got no compunction about discussing this with Merlin, but he doesn’t want it to reach his father that he’s being so open with family gossip. “Come on,” he says, deciding on discretion, and reins Virtue off the road. The day isn’t overwarm and the venison will keep long enough to have this conversation.

Merlin makes a puzzled sound but doesn’t say anything and Arthur hears his mare stepping to follow. He only leads them a short distance into a billowy field of long grass near a stand of sparse larch saplings that will keep them shaded.

“The likelihood of prying ears is slim,” Arthur admits, reading the question in Merlin’s odd look and raised brows. “But we can’t be too careful. One merchant overhearing Morgana’s name is all it would take for the chatter to spread through the lower town and then to some bootlicker eager to win my father’s good graces.” He snorts.

“I take it you’re speaking from experience?” Merlin asks with a knowing smirk.

Arthur nods. “I am. And I’d honestly rather my father take a lash to my hide than have to listen to him rave about disloyalty and honor and all that rubbish. Yet again.”

“Disloyalty?”

“Oh yes,” Arthur bobs his head again, more exaggerated. “But, let me backtrack. Of course, you know of my father’s views on magic and sorcery. My whole life he’s never once show leniency towards someone in Camelot caught using magic.”

Merlin’s expression goes tight-lipped, and he jerks his head in a curt nod. “So I’ve heard.”

It’s not Arthur’s place to apologize for his father, but he can’t resist the urge to do so. “I know things are different in Essetir. This must seem rather… um, severe?”

“Archaic, more like,” Merlin says with a sniff of distaste. His lips press thin a moment longer before he seems to force himself to relax. “But, it’s not my place to judge.”

“Oh, judge away,” Arthur contradicts. “My mother shares your opinion, so I’ve grown up caught somewhere in their divide on that subject.”

Though he looks like he might want to say more, Merlin merely indicates he should continue. “But you were talking about Morgana?”

“Right. Yes. Well, about two years ago, Morgana confided in a few of us that she’d started having troubling dreams. She’d wake in the middle of the night, terrified, and find that all the doused candles in her room were relit and burning unnaturally bright. Or, she’d get frustrated or short-tempered over something and a mirror might crack.”

“That’s often how it starts,” Merlin says, nodding. “I’ve heard many similar stories. If a person isn’t born with the talents immediately evident, they can come on later in life. Early adulthood is quite common.”

Even knowing Merlin grew up where magic is commonplace, Arthur finds himself wanting to squirm at the easy way he talks of such things. Aside from piecemeal bits from his mother, and occasionally hearing things from Gaius or Morgana, he’s never had a conversation like this before. There’s a subversive feel to it that makes his stomach flip.

“Born with it?” he asks, too curious to let that go. “You mean having magic as a child?”

“Oh yes. It’s not as common, but it’s known to happen. Actually, all sorcerers or warlocks or witches are born with their magic, it just lays dormant within them in the majority of cases. Sometimes it’s something traumatic that makes it come forth. Other times it just happens the way you’ve described with Morgana.” He looks down at his hands which are gripping the pommel of his saddle oddly tight. “It’s easier that way, I’ve heard. A child whose magic comes early often has trouble controlling themselves. I’ve heard it can be quite tough on their parents and family.”

“I can imagine,” Arthur agrees, though he’s not really sure if he can.

“Sorry, do go on. I keep interrupting.”

“No, no. I don’t mind. As you can probably guess, some of this is quite new to me. It certainly was when Morgana first told me of what was happening. Fortunately, she was also willing to talk to Gaius. He was able to help her understand what was happening in those early days. And she began to come to terms with it, although she tried to keep it hidden for a time. But that was harder on her I think.”

“I’m sure it was. Having to hide who she really was.”

Sighing, Arthur agrees. “She said as much. Sometimes during those late nights when she woke up terrified, she’d sneak to my room and we’d sit up and talk until she felt calm enough to go back to sleep.” He doesn’t mention the nights that he’d just held onto her until she cried herself to sleep, and then tucked her in his bed and then stayed awake until dawn to watch over her. “Those were a long few months. But finally, she told our father.”

Merlin winces. “I’m sure that went over well.”

“Oh, as well as you can imagine. They were fighting already. She kept trying to get him to relax his stance on magic, and he would chastise her and tell her she was too young to know her own mind and that she’d no right lambasting him over something she didn’t understand.”

He wishes he’d been there to see it when she finally broke and told him the truth.

“Oh dear,” Merlin sucks in air through his teeth. “That pushed her over the edge, didn’t it?”

“Oh, yes.”

“How did Uther react?”

Arthur chuckles ruefully. “About as well as can be expected. He was in denial for a very long time. And then he just tried to ignore it. But once she was open with her magic, Morgana was having none of keeping it quiet any longer. She’d flaunt it in front of him. Move a wine goblet on the dinner table, set the candles alight when she walked into a room. Little bits of magic that made it impossible to forget it was so close to him.

“All the while she continued to push back at him on his views and the laws of magic. Especially as it made him quite the hypocrite to ignore her using magic in front of him, while still carrying out his decree of banishing others. He was miserable with it.”

The corners of Merlin’s mouth are pinching inward, like he’s fighting a grin.

“You can smirk at that,” Arthur grants. “I honestly felt like my father deserved much of the stress she put him through.”

“Sorry,” Merlin tells him, not sounding it at all. And he does let the wicked little smirk tuck into his cheeks. “So, what happened? Why did Morgana leave Camelot?”

“Somehow, though I’m still not quite sure if Gaius told her of this, or perhaps my mother, but Morgana learned of a place called the Isle of the Blessed.” From the way Merlin’s eyes go suddenly wide, he’s heard of it as well. “Apparently there are other sorcerers there who could teach her to control her power and learn more about it.” He pauses, giving Merlin the opportunity to share his opinion, but he stays silent. Arthur tries not to let that sting. “So, much to my father’s disappointment and disapproval, she chose to go there. She’s been away over a year, and he still gets riled at the mere mention of her name.”

“He’s still angry?”

He thinks on that a few seconds, trying to classify his father’s moods towards the subject of Morgana. “Not angry, I don’t think. Not wholly, anyway. Worried. And guilty. She writes regularly to Gwen and my mother, and sometimes I’ll get a letter. But she hasn’t tried to reach out to him yet, and I think he’s hurt by that. Though,” Arthur adds, “he’s made no effort to contact her either. They’re both just as stubborn as the other. She’s certainly her father’s daughter.”

“It’s a shame she isn’t here,” Merlin says after thoughtfully pondering all that Arthur’s told him. “I think I’d quite like to meet her. I have a feeling we’d get on.”

Arthur takes up his reins again and just before he taps heels into Virtue’s barrel, he shakes his head at Merlin with a laugh. “I’m positive of that. And I’m also positive that I’m glad she’s not, as I have a feeling the pair of you would be too much to take!” With that, he guides Virtue back toward the road – pressing his bootheels firmly to urge the horse into a jog – and he can hear Merlin’s snickering trail after.

The next week passes with unexpected ease, growing camaraderie and even humor between princes. Merlin tolerates all of Arthur’s pre-planned activities surprisingly well; although they do make several changes.

In the joust, Merlin allows his knights to stand in for him, and Arthur makes the same concession. He claims it’s because he knows his own men won’t treat him as an equal – which may be slightly true – but he also doesn’t want Merlin to face criticism for his choice. It’s easy enough to let everyone think they’re both being especially generous to their men by abstaining.

Lancelot takes the prize in the end, unhorsing Gwaine (who accepts defeat ruefully) in the final match, and he smiles bashfully when Guinevere is the one to gift him with a winner’s laurel.

Merlin does participate in the contest of weapon skills that Arthur arranged, though there are a few changes made there as well. It takes a bit of scrambling on such short order, but with the aid of his resourceful squire, Elyan’s father’s hasty smithing and a few donations from the Royal Huntsman, they manage to set-up a passable arena for ranged weapons.

Arthur limits each participant to three categories of weapon, explaining that it gives each of the men a chance to showcase any regional or specialized skills they might otherwise not get to display. Merlin comes away the easy victor in the longbow and surprisingly finishes a close second in axe throwing. Arthur handily takes the sword, crossbow and comes second to Percival in long spear (those arms give him a ridiculous advantage). The rest of the contests are a fair split between Essetir and Camelot.

Days spent training with the knights provide ample opportunity for Arthur and Merlin to banter and set wagers on the men and even, occasionally, do some sparring. The first time Arthur faces Merlin in the ring, he’s surprised at how long it takes him to wrench Merlin’s sword from his hand. He’s quick on his feet and knows how to use a shield to his advantage. There’s something else odd about his fighting ability – even Leon and Elyan remark on it – like he’s holding something back, or is somehow hindered, but Arthur’s not able to suss out what it is.

He may not be the best swordsman Arthur’s known, but Merlin is an impressively skilled strategist. Over pints in the pub and fine meals in the great hall, even pilfered wine in the dungeons once (though, that’s due to their trying to duck Gwaine, who thinks any evening not spent at the tavern is a night gone to waste) the two get into several lengthy discussions on old battle campaigns and tactics. Arthur quickly discovers that Merlin has not only studied warfare extensively but has had several opportunities to observe his strategies in action. 

Even there though, as with the combat, Arthur feels that Merlin is keeping some secret.

One evening after dinner and a bit too much wine, and long after everyone else has retired, Merlin takes gnawed pheasant bones and bits of bread and cheese and other scraps and maps out a campaign on their dinner table. Using the crude display, he walks Arthur through the combat (red berries filling in for Essetir’s troops, and dark loganberries their opponent) and even with a map of it laid out in front of him, some of Merlin’s moves just don’t seem to connect properly. Like he’s skipping some step. (When Arthur questions him, he cheekily pops the berries in his mouth and feigns ignorance).

Though he plans on saying nothing to Uther, not yet – as he’s not entirely sure, and certainly doesn’t want to waste his father’s time with speculation – Arthur’s beginning to suspect some the uniqueness of Merlin’s techniques in both combat and combat strategy are due to the accessibility of magic. Why would Balinor of Essetir, a kingdom where magic is practiced freely, not take advantage of that resource?

Not to mention the dragons, that are their own, unique factor.

He hasn’t had the courage to bring up either with Merlin yet.


	6. Chapter 6

It’s eight days after the arrival of the delegation from Essetir that Uther calls Arthur to his chambers for a meal.

Arthur’s been anticipating this, expecting it a few days earlier, and he arrives at his father's chambers promptly and well-prepared to field the questions that he knows Uther will ask. To his credit, Uther managers to get through much of the meal without pushing Arthur for details, focusing on polite but inconsequential chatter as they dine. But as Arthur lingers over his wine and a final course of mince tarts and cream, he can tell that Uther is practically chewing his lip off with the need to ask.

“So, Arthur,” Uther finally begins even before Arthur has pushed the dessert plate aside, “you've had half a fortnight to spend time with Essetir’s Prince. What have you learned?”

Delaying in answering long enough to finish the final swallows of his wine, Arthur carefully considers his words. “I’m afraid I’ve gleaned little more than we already know,” he admits, feigning regret. “I expect that King Balinor cautioned his son against discussing magic openly.”

Uther frowns. “But surely you’ve learned something beyond what our intelligence has provided?”

With a shrug, Arthur replies, “I’m sorry I’ve not got more than that for you, father. Prince Merlin is quick to discuss many things about Essetir and its people, but he’s evasive anytime the subject of warfare or dragons is mentioned.” Knowing that he needs to give his father something, he adds, “Although, when we have talked of battles, I sense that there are gaps when Prince Merlin explains strategies and troop placement and the like. I expect that he’s avoiding mention of their use of magic in battle.”

“You’ve had a week to get to know this boy,” Uther chides, “and the best you can tell me is that you _think_ they employ magic in combat?”

Arthur shrugs. He doesn’t feel guilty for having nothing more substantial to report.

“I’m disappointed, Arthur. Your task was to befriend the Prince of Essetir and bring him into your confidence, not to simply spend your evenings carousing in the tavern with those ridiculous knights–”

“No,” Arthur interrupts, “it’s your task, father. I’m doing this at your behest. And you need to consider that Prince Merlin is also acting on the behest of his own father’s wishes. In the short time I’ve spent with King Balinor, it’s clear he’s a savvy politician. You must know that he’d have spent a good bit of time considering what coming to Camelot would mean.”

Uther continues to frown, but he does give a brief, conciliatory nod at Arthur’s assessment. “Perhaps you’re right. Balinor has likely cautioned his son against giving away their secrets.” He rubs at his chin with a thumb and two fingers, looking thoughtful.

That calculating expression is enough to make Arthur go tense across the line of his shoulders and neck.

“We’ve still time,” Uther finally states, and fixes Arthur with a raised brow and knowing stare. “If you’ve a need, I suggest you employ the”–he coughs delicately–”assistance of one of the staff. Perhaps that maid, Julienna?”

“Guinevere,” Arthur grits out, fighting to keep his mouth from shaping the scowl that wants to form.

Uther waves away the name. “Yes, her. Or one of the others.”

Much as he knows he should bite his tongue, Arthur can’t help but protest. “You want me to what? Whore out one of our loyal servants to get information from Prince Merlin?”

Frown spreading wider, Uther rolls his eyes. “Don’t be crass, Arthur.”

“Crass? For calling your suggestion by its name?”

That bit of rebellion crosses a line. Uther pounds the table with the side of his fist. “Enough. We haven’t time for your sensibilities.” The fingers of the fist uncurl, raising to point two at Arthur’s chest.

He suspects that if Uther weren’t across the table, they’d be tapping hard against his breastbone.

“Am I understood?”

Arthur gives a curt and too-brief bow of his head. “Yes, Sire.”

Apparently considering the topic closed, Uther sits back in his chair and signals for a servant to bring more wine. “Now, let’s discuss the plans for the upcoming arrivals.”

Biting back a weary sigh, Arthur holds out his goblet for a refill of his own; when it’s half-full and the young man starts to pull the bottle away, he gestures for him to keep pouring. It’s going to be a long night.

Arthur is roused early the next morning, bleary-eyed and restive, for no reason he can discern. He blinks awake, taking in the predawn gloom of his bedroom as his eyes find focus.

“Good morning, my lord,” George’s monotone delivery of his standard, daily greeting, comes as a bit of a surprise. It’s far earlier than he usually starts his duties.

“Yes, yes…” he mutters. “Good morning. You’re here early, George.”

“You dined with your father last night,” George explains.

Right, that makes sense. He’s left standing orders with George to be available before the dawn any morning following ‘formal dinner’ with Uther. He’d feel guilty about it, but he knows George has probably been awake an hour already, polishing and tidying and harassing the kitchen help.

Arthur – as per the norm – had slept poorly and though they’re already fading, he can vaguely recall fragments of disquieting dreams. Lying abed while George rushes about to draw back the curtains and ready his breakfast, he decides he’s got no head for the intended plans of the day – a riding outing with kings and court – and instructs George to deliver regrets to his father.

“George, can you please run a message to my father that I and Prince Merlin won’t be joining the riding tour today. Tell him…” He flips a hand in the air as he thinks of an excuse. “Tell him we stayed up all hours drinking and carousing in the tavern and we’re in no fit state for company.” It’s close enough to what his father accused him of last night.

“Certainly, sire.” George, bless him, does not judge.

He’ll probably catch hell for it, but he’d much rather cajole Merlin into taking him fishing, instead.

Of course, he needs to get Merlin to agree.

It’s still predawn, and George hasn’t dared try to wake Merlin yet. George has – rather wisely – decided that he’s better off waiting to rouse the visiting prince until well after he’s finished readying Arthur for the day. He’s visibly relieved when Arthur tells him not to worry, and that he’ll handle that duty this morning.

When Arthur knocks softly at Merlin’s door, there’s no answer.

He tries again, knuckles rapping with a bit more force.

That earns him a faint groan, but nothing else.

“Merlin,” he calls out, pitching his voice loud enough to carry through the barrier of the door, “If you don’t wake up now, I’m coming in there with a pitcher of cold water.”

He doesn’t _have_ a pitcher of cold water, but Merlin doesn’t know that.

Still, Merlin’s only response is an unintelligible grunt.

“You were warned!”

Arthur pushes open the door and stalks into Merlin’s chamber. It’s dark in the room and he can barely make out the lump of Merlin nestled beneath a thick duvet.

“Merlin,” Arthur sing-songs.

“’S too early,” Merlin mutters thickly.

Though the sun’s still at least a candlemark from rising, Arthur whisks back the curtains, letting the remnants of silvery moonlight flood the room.

“Come on, Merlin,” he tries again. “Let’s have you, lazy-daisy.”

Merlin picks his head up from his pillow just far enough to glare at Arthur balefully.

“There you go! That’s a start.”

“Arthur,” Merlin says his name very deliberately.

“Yes, Merlin?”

“Is that the moon?”

Arthur looks over his shoulder, spotting the waning gibbous through the colored panes where it sinks low toward the horizon. “No, of course not. It’s a very faint sun.” He turns back to Merlin, grinning smartly.

“Arthur,” Merlin repeats, this time with a petulant whine. He lets his head fall back into the pillow. “Go away.”

“I’d like to, Merlin, but I’ve been advised that the fish start biting at dawn, so I figured we’d best get off to an early start.”

Propping himself up on an elbow, Merlin stares quizzically. His hair is a delightful mess, and Arthur realizes that as the bedclothes slip down, and he sits up, Merlin’s not wearing a nightshirt. His eye is drawn to the smooth curve of Merlin’s shoulder, and the pale line of his throat. In the moonlight, his skin shimmers with an alabaster gleam.

“Arthur?”

He jerks his gaze away, staring intently down at the fanciful pattern in the rug. “Yes, Merlin?” He can only hope Merlin’s too sleep-weary to have caught him staring.

“I thought we had the afternoon ride with our fathers and a bevy of bootlickers… I mean, nobles on today’s agenda?”

A relieved sigh slips out; Arthur’s uncouth behavior wasn’t caught. Or, at least Merlin chose not to call him on it. Either way, he’s grateful. He must still be half-asleep.

“Uh, that _was_ the plan, yes. But… I’m in no mood for listening to nobles or even kings prattle on. I’d like you to take me fishing, instead. Are you game?” He looks up eagerly.

Merlin hesitates for all of a few seconds, biting at his lip and pretending to consider. Then he whips the bedclothes aside and sits up fully. “I am. That beats a dull, doddering ride with the nobility any day.”

A rather strangled, “Uh huh,” croaks out from Arthur’s throat, and he frantically casts about for something else to focus on… anything else.

Merlin, apparently, sleeps entirely naked.

At the sudden and alarmed squeak that comes from the direction of Merlin’s bed, Arthur assumes he’s realized his rather exposed state.

“I’ll just,” Arthur mutters, already side-stepping across the room, his eyes carefully averted. “I’ll wait outside, for you to… dress.”

“Right, sorry,” Merlin utters, sounding mortified.

Before he turns for the door, Arthur can’t help but take a darting peek. Though he’s still sitting up, Merlin has yanked the bedclothes over his legs again and his back is to Arthur. The whole of his back – surprisingly muscled shoulder blades winging out on either side of straight spine, all tapering to a narrow waist – is flushed and spotty, and it takes a surprising amount of willpower for Arthur to turn away. He finally does, though, and scurries out the door. He closes it behind him and slumps heavily against it.

Flustered and panting slightly, he stops himself from knocking the back of his head into the wood of the door repeatedly, only because he knows Merlin would hear.

He’s not sure how much time passes before the jiggle of the door handle startles him from his stupor (he may or may not have been fixated on wondering just how far down Merlin’s blush might go) and Arthur steps away from it.

He wants to apologize when Merlin comes into the hall, still working a scarf in a peculiar wrap around his neck.

“Look, Merlin,” he starts, but Merlin shakes his head.

“Let’s forget about it,” Merlin offers.

Grateful, Arthur can only nod.

They fall into step. On the heels of a noisy yawn, Merlin says, “Guess some habits are better left at home.” He flashes a sideward grin. “I’ll have to see about getting a sleep tunic or something.”

“Well, you can’t borrow mine,” Arthur teases.

“Prat,” Merlin grumbles, but he bumps his shoulder against Arthur’s as they walk.

Once again, they gather their gear and mounts and put Camelot to their backs, and Arthur guides them to a small lake several leagues from the keep (quite in the opposite direction he knows that the party of nobles will take). Stream fed at one shore, where fast-flowing water creates miniscule whitecaps over a scattering of rocks, the center of the lake is dark and fathomless, while the opposite bank is reedy, shallow and still. He knows (because he asked one of the fishmongers in the lower town) that it’s populated with bream and trout and greyling. 

“I think you’ll really like this, Arthur,” Merlin tells him as they dismount near an arcing, stone-pebbled beach. “I don’t suppose there’s a boat we could use?” he looks around.

Arthur frowns. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know we’d need one.” He hadn’t even thought to consult Merlin before proposing the outing and knows he’s unprepared.

Merlin waves that away with a grin. “Oh, no worries. It’s not necessary at all. I’m sure we’ll do well. On a smaller lake, one that’s more shallow, we’d probably have more luck in a boat. But there are plenty of suitable spots to cast out from shore.”

“Good. That’s good.”

The grey washed blue of predawn holds sway in the sky, but the sun is creeping slowly up over the trees, trailing hues of violet and rose and amber in its wake. Arthur watches the sunrise in silence as it breaches the topline of the forest and spreads a riotous splay of color over the pellucid surface of the lake.

Lost in mindless contemplation of its beauty, Arthur doesn’t notice that Merlin’s stepped over to his side until he feels a bump against his shoulder. He starts at first, jerking slightly, but then allows himself to lean into Merlin’s shoulder a moment.

“Quite a site,” Merlin says softly.

Arthur nods absently. He wishes his mother could see it. The thought brings a pang of melancholy, and he turns away. He returns to his mount, starts to unpack his saddlebag.

“Arthur?” Merlin says, a question in his name.

“It’s nothing,” he answers, perhaps a bit too sharp.

“Right, of course.”

The terse reply and the sound of Merlin stomping away makes Arthur curse under his breath. He hadn’t meant to put a damper on their morning already. The sun’s barely risen for god’s sake. He just can’t drag his thoughts to the present.

He’d visited his mother briefly last night, before his ill-fated meeting with his father, and she’d been drawn and pale. Though she’d been moved to her chair by the window, she hadn’t even been able to mutter his name or take his hand. She seemed barely aware of his presence, and when he tried to read to her, she’d fallen asleep two-pages in.

Between Ygraine’s growing frailty and Uther’s admonishments, Arthur’s in a terrible headspace this morning. He thought that getting out of the castle and spending time with Merlin would take his mind off things, but so far, he seems to be doing his best to set them back to the animosity of their first meeting.

Dropping his forehead against Virtue’s neck, he listens to the sounds of Merlin gathering his own gear and unsaddling his mare.

All that he needs to do to fix this is just… talk.

Something that’s never been his strong suit.

But he doesn’t want to ruin the day, and he knows – firmly and without a doubt – that Merlin won’t judge him. Still, it isn’t easy.

By the time he straightens and turns to find Merlin, he’s already standing at the waters’ edge, stringing a line on a long pole made of joined sections of yew and ash. He joins Merlin there, watching him for a few minutes in silence. Merlin ties a neatly smithed hook on to the thin thread of woven horse-hair.

Arthur waits until he’s done with the delicate task and then offers a clumsy-sounding. “Sorry.”

Merlin shrugs.

A simple apology isn’t going to be good enough, Arthur knows. He’s already coming to recognize Merlin’s rather mercurial moods. Unless he explains exactly why he’s sorry, Merlin is likely to stay terse and tight-lipped.

“It’s just,” he begins haltingly, and then closes his mouth. Aside from Gwen or maybe Gaius, he’s not comfortable talking to people about his mother. As much as he’s gotten to know Merlin over the past few days, he’s still – mostly – a stranger. He battles with that a few more minutes, while he watches Merlin deftly work a plump, wriggling grub onto the sharp hook.

“It’s just,” he starts again, not even sure when he decided to keep talking, “my mother. I went to see her last night. Well, I try to visit every day if I can. And, well… it wasn’t a good night.” He looks out over the water again. It feels like so little time has passed, but already the palette of sunrise colors reflecting on the glass-smooth surface have muted and faded, blending into the white-blue of early morning sky.

“I was just thinking how much she’d had loved that sunrise.”

It’s almost a relief that Merlin doesn’t immediately offer sympathy, or pity. Which is what Arthur was expecting, almost braced for.

Instead, Merlin begins cautiously. “You don’t talk much of her. I hadn’t wanted to pry. And, um, my father warned me not to say anything about her to your father. I thought that might extend to you as well.”

Arthur looks over sharply at that. “What do you mean?”

Merlin makes a vague circling gesture with one hand. “I guess that it’s not something that Uther is known to discuss freely?”

He answers like he’s reaching for something to say, not speaking truth.

Arthur’s eyes narrow. “There’s more to it. What aren’t you saying?”

Merlin stays silent too long, unable to meet Arthur’s eyes. He stares down at his boots instead, toeing into the damp soil. Finally, he sighs. “I don’t know the whole of it, Arthur. But my father and your mother knew each other before…” he makes that vague gesture again, this time with both hands, and nearly smacks Arthur in the face with the fishing pole.

Sheepishly, he transfers it to the other hand and out of range. “My father wouldn’t tell me any more than that. He just told me, before we arrived, that it would upset Uther if I were to ask about your mother. And that unless he brought her up, I wasn’t to say anything. I don’t think there was any malicious intent in my father’s suggestion,” he continues hastily, concluding, “I just don’t think he wants anything to disrupt the opportunity for peace.”

That’s something Arthur can understand. Although once again, he’s reminded that there seem to be many mysteries from the time before his birth that are significantly relevant to the present. He feels a bit like the only one left out of some massive secret. That his father is likely the source of it being kept from him just fuels his already simmering frustration with the man.

“You can ask about her. I mean, you can ask _me_,” Arthur clarifies. “You’re right that it’s not a good idea to talk about her with my father.” He sighs. “I think he’s trying to keep her safe. And he’s very overprotective. But, um, if it’s just me… you can ask. I’ll talk about her. I’d like to talk about her.” It feels like he’s offering Merlin something large and undefinable, and it makes his chest flutter uncertainly.

Now that he’s got permission though, Merlin doesn’t ask anything. Instead he hands over the fishing rod. “Take this one. I’ll string another.”

Arthur takes it and Merlin spends the next few minutes silently readying the next pole.

“All right,” Merlin says when he’s done, and he walks several feet further down the bank. “This is how it’s done.”

Arthur watches as he demonstrates: he raises the slender rod, whips it back and forth several times until the line is moving in sinuous arcs through the air above him. Then he flicks his arm forward and the line sails out smooth, the hook landing in the water with a faint splash some yards away.

He makes it look easy. Arthur can’t help but smile. “That was well done.”

While he _has_ fished before, usually it’s been with nets or spears or the occasionally letting a baited line dangle off a dock or bridge. This casting out business is its own sort of challenge. But he’s game to try anything. He shrugs out of his jacket – letting it lay – and then rolls up his sleeves.

Trying to follow Merlin’s lead, Arthur bungles his first few attempts. He doesn’t get enough speed drawing his arm back, and the hook catches a clump of grass. Then he whips it too far back and the line snags in branches behind him.

Merlin makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a laugh, though he covers it with a muffling hand over his mouth. “Do you want some help?”

“No,” Arthur replies primly. “I can do this.” The he proceeds to further embarrass himself, taking far too long to untangle the line from the shrubbery. He loses his bait in the process.

Luckily, Merlin’s come prepared with a jar that’s loosely packed with soil and worms.

He absolutely does not squirm when he pushes the point of the hook through the slimy pink worm. He’s beheaded men in combat for goodness sake; impaling a worm shouldn’t make his stomach roll. Arthur wonders if Merlin can sense his distaste. He keeps sneaking sideways glances and each time, his lips press tighter and tighter.

His third cast goes slightly better – no tangling or dirt clumps, at least – but the line falls short and the hook drops into the water only a few feet away.

Merlin doesn’t say anything, but Arthur can tell that he’s dying to.

“Fine,” he gives in. “Show me how this is done.”

Staking his own pole into the ground, Merlin is quick to jog over to offer his assistance. To Arthur’s surprise, Merlin boldly takes hold of his arm.

“It’s the way you’re holding it,” he explains and slides his hand down the length of Arthur’s bared forearm to where his fingers curl tight around the springy ash shaft. While Merlin manipulates his grip and explains the correct hand position and the right pressure and the form of his cast, Arthur’s distracted by the heat of Merlin’s palm against his skin. Surely, he doesn’t need to stand close enough that Arthur can feel the heat of him, the breath of Merlin’s exhale tickling his nape?

Somehow, despite having caught nary a whit of Merlin’s careful explanation, Arthur casts out again with Merlin’s hands guiding him, and this time the hook and line sail out neatly overhead and land a goodly distance from the lake’s edge.

“Well done, Arthur!” Merlin squeezes Arthur’s fingers – his still wrapped around the knot of Arthur’s that grip the pole – and he claps Arthur’s shoulder with his free hand.

They’re so _close_.

The whole of Arthur’s side bumps against Merlin’s front, touching and pressing at multiple points of contact.

He should distance himself. Really… he should. He’s flushed from hairline to chest – from triumphant exuberance of _course_, nothing else – and there’s nothing more to do now than wait for a passing fish to take a nibble.

Arthur doesn’t move away.

Neither does Merlin. “Uh,” he says softly and a little bit hoarse. “So, you’ll um, want to keep that same light grip. It’s the best way to feel the vibration if you’ve got a bite.”

Oh. It’s still part of the lesson.

Arthur’s not at all disappointed by that.

“Right.” He turns to say thank you, and finds their faces are only a few inches apart. He meets Merlin’s gaze and the words slip, forgotten, off his tongue. Merlin’s eyes are the color of deepest water; a fathomless blue shadowed by the fanning shade of overlong lashes. And his lips… how has Arthur never noticed the plumpness of them?

“Arthur,” Merlin says, low and breathy.

“Yes, Merlin,” Arthur replies, feeling like everything around them is slowed, trapped in a golden, honey thickness.

“I think you’ve got a bite.”

A brow chases up Arthur’s forehead. “I’m sorry?”

“Your line,” he indicates with a jerk of his chin. “It’s twitching. I think you’ve got a fish.”

“A fish,” Arthur repeats. “Oh! A fish, right.” He looks to the water, swiveling his head so fast his neck pops, and sees that his line is indeed moving. He gives a sharp, sideward tug, ignoring the loss of warmth when Merlin’s hands are jostled away, to set the hook.

There’s definitely a fish, and a good-sized one if Arthur’s struggle to haul in the line hand-over-hand is any indication. To Merlin’s vocal encouragement, he manages to draw the fighting bream out of the water. It’s almost as long as his forearm, and he holds it up triumphantly.

“I think I’ve got this figured out!” He turns to Merlin, beaming.

“Yeah,” Merlin says, and though he’s smiling, there’s something vaguely disappointed around his eyes. “Right, well. I’ll just leave you to it then. Get back to my own.” He hesitates though, bites at his lower lip.

Should Arthur ask what’s on his mind?

Before he can decide, Merlin bobs his head, says, “Right, I’ll just,” and then spins on a heel and is walking away.

Arthur stares after him, quite perplexed, but Merlin just gets back to his spot, takes up his fishing rod and casts out again.

Not willing – or probably more accurately, not _ready_ – to examine the strangeness of the last several minutes, Arthur secures his prize and then focuses his attention on catching a few more.

Eventually, he relaxes into it, and starts to appreciate the quiet and the company. It’s comforting, having Merlin there, sharing his successes and frustrations, but he enjoys the companionable solitude as well. He can understand why this is a favorite pastime of Merlin’s (especially when they start hauling out silver-sided greyling and the occasional large brown trout).

They stay out until the sun nears its apogee and the fish have long-stopped biting. Between them they’ve caught over a dozen; Merlin strings them neatly on a carry pole to bring back to Camelot.

Riding back, they’ve gone a few miles in silence – horses plodding along at a walk, as they’re in no hurry to cross paths with the nobles – when Arthur draws back on Virtue’s reins, so the horse slows and steps into side-by-side pace with Merlin’s mare.

“That was a day well-spent, thank you.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it, Arthur.” Merlin lifts one shoulder in a coy shrug. “Perhaps we’ll find another time to do it again.”

Arthur thinks of all that’s planned for the coming days and weeks – especially the events of state – and gives a firm nod. “I’m sure that can be arranged.”

Merlin looks at him slyly, “Perhaps the next time we’re to lunch with the nobility?”

“Perhaps,” Arthur repeats, gaze forward and tone utterly guileless. His subtle wink may spoil it.

It keeps them snickering all the way back the keep.


	7. Chapter 7

“It was disrespectful,” Uther hisses out through gritted teeth.

“Yes, Sire,” Arthur responds.

“I should have you put in the stocks.”

Arthur knows it’s an empty threat. He nods.

Though the topic of his absence from yesterday’s outing garners him continued dark looks from Uther, the king is stymied in his chance to further berate his sons’ ‘irresponsibility and disregard for duty’ due to the fact that they’re stood on the steps in the courtyard, waiting as another King makes his arrival to Camelot.

Arthur, meanwhile, is nothing but grateful for the day of peace and relaxation he and Merlin got to indulge in.

Especially as the next few days pass in a blur of sudden arrivals and the pomp and circumstance of royalty. Both Caerleon of Gwynned – accompanied by his wife, Queen Annis – and Bayard of Mercia end up reaching the keep in the same afternoon, mere hours apart, and Olaf of Dyfed arrives only a day later. Arthur’s kept busy with greetings and tours and feasts. He and Merlin hardly get a moment free (and Merlin bemoans the fact that he’d willingly participate in a joust – as the _horse –_ if it meant getting out of another noisy, crowded feast).

Olaf’s daughter, Princess Vivian, proves to be quite the distraction as well; though not in any good way.

Arthur’s been spoiled by Merlin’s easy company; Vivian’s is anything but. She’s short-tempered, abysmally rude, and nothing and no one in Camelot is good enough for her. She sends three different maids away in tears in the first few candlemarks of her arrival (luckily, Gwen is made of sterner stuff, and although Vivian remarks that Gwen is “passable, I suppose” she tolerates the overindulged royal better than anyone).

And because she’s the daughter of a king and Arthur’s equal in rank, it falls to him to keep her entertained. 

He tries.

Even Merlin offers him advice on how to keep her happy – or at least quiet.

Picnics, jugglers, musicians… it’s all ‘boring, trite, provincial’. His only successful afternoon with her is when he invites a bevy of local jewelers and other fine goods merchants into the castle to personally display their wares to her alone. Oh, she still mocks the quality and quantity of trinkets and scarves and gemstones presented, but the merchants are happy to bite their tongues when she sends them away with fuller purses.

Spending her father’s gold only entertains her so long.

Arthur escorts her to each feast. He abhors every minute of it; stuck between her incessant complaining and Olaf’s hawkish glower, he pines rather pathetically for Merlin’s company.

And Merlin, damn him, begs off a seat at the high table, since it’s running low on room. He volunteers to join the knights instead. He catches Arthur’s eye now and again, grinning wickedly and raising his goblet. Limited to watered sweet-wine, since that’s what Vivian prefers, Arthur can’t even dull the throbbing in his head with drink.

Arthur assumes that his saving grace arrives in the form of King Godwyn and his lovely, if awkward and mawkish, daughter, Elena. Two princesses in the castle should provide plentiful distraction for each other, right?

Then Vivian takes one look at the frumpy Princess of Gawant with her poorly fitted dress and her ungainly posture and her tangled hair and laughs herself silly. She tries to share her catty remarks with Arthur, but he feigns ignorance and greets Elena warmly.

Her father, King Godwyn, and Uther are old friends and Arthur knows he’s not imaging the gleam in both kings’ eyes at seeing the two of them together. Elena is lovely and kind, and a much better person than Vivian, but Arthur couldn’t imagine spending a few days with her, to say nothing of a lifetime.

That evening, after yet another feast, Arthur begs out early claiming a headache. It’s not far from the truth. Positioned as a buffer between two more opposite women than he could ever fathom leaves a sharp throb in his temples well before the last trays have even been cleared.

To his relief, Merlin spots him skulking towards the exit and throws a wink his way. He suspects Merlin’s about to ‘come down’ with some ailment or another, and he slows his pace back to his chambers.

Sure enough, only a few minutes later, footsteps start to catch him up.

“There you are!” Merlin says with a laugh.

“Shhh,” Arthur cautions, though he’s grinning as well. “If our fathers find out we’re skiving duty again, we’ll never hear the end of it. Mine’ll have me in the stocks.”

Merlin cringes and nods. “Yeah, mine was none-too-happy with me. Though, he threatened to tell my mother.”

Arthur can’t help a quiet chuckle at the affronted expression. “We shouldn’t go back to either of our rooms,” he advises. “Too much chance of being overheard.”

“The kitchens? Or stables perhaps?”

He shakes his head. “No, too many witnesses.”

“Outside the keep then?”

Arthur thinks on that a moment and then dismisses it with another head-shake. “No. If someone tried to find us for any reason, we’d never be alerted to it and they’d likely ring the alarm bells.”

Merlin’s face screws up in thought, enough so that Arthur suspects he’s had more than a few cups of wine, and he’s rather distracted by that odd dichotomy of charming and ridiculous.

“The dungeons!” Merlin blurts out suddenly, then remembers himself, glances around the empty corridor and then stage-whispers, “The dungeons.”

It’s a good idea, if they don’t mind sitting on cold stone floors and moldy straw, and they’d done it once already to avoid drinking with the knights. Arthur considers it. “No,” he says at last, “not the dungeons, but somewhere similar. C’mon, follow me.”

After a rather daring – if Arthur says so himself – raid of a wine cellar, he leads Merlin to a rarely used section of the keep, not far from the library.

Merlin remarks on it. “I know the library is usually empty in the evenings, but that Geoffrey doesn’t seem like he sleeps.”

It’s an odd comment, but Arthur just says, “Well it’s a good thing that’s not where we’re going.”

A bit later Merlin says, “Arthur, you said this was someplace similar to a dungeon, but we’re going up, not down.”

Exasperated – except not really – Arthur blows out a breath. “Oh, just be patient, will you.” They reach the top of a winding staircase that’s been circling upward and are stopped by a door. “Give me a moment,” Arthur says, feeling around the top of the lintel. After a moment of trailing searching fingers though thick dust, Arthur finds what he’s looking for.

“What is this place?”

Arthur brandishes a cobwebby key and then unlocks the door with a flourish and pushes it open. “It’s the Sorcerer’s Tower,” he explains.

Merlin, who’d been right on Arthur’s heels and about to step over the threshold, stops like he’s encountered a physical barrier. “The what?” he asks, voice pitching an octave higher than normal.

“Don’t be daft, Merlin. That’s just what it’s called. There’s no sorcerers up here.”

“Oh, good.”

Despite Merlin’s little laugh of relief, he still steps into the room with obvious trepidation and his eyes are wide as he looks around the circular space, though he can likely see little of it as Arthur’s holding the only candle. “So, um, why’s it called that, then?”

After shutting the door behind them and setting up a few candles he nicked (while pilfering wine) into various sconces on the walls, Arthur looks at Merlin and shrugs. “I’m not sure. I expect that after my father’s great purge of all magic from Camelot, this might’ve been a place where he locked-up those with magic. It’s never been in use that I recall. I just used to sneak up here on occasion to duck out on my more tedious lessons. So, it could’ve been a kind of sorcerer’s prison, I suppose.”

Shoulders tensing, Merlin peers around again, seeming to study the space now that some of the shadows have been chased away by flickering candle light. “I don’t see anything that indicates it was any kind of prison for sorcerers,” he finally says.

Damn, Arthur had forgotten! Merlin comes from a place where magic is commonplace. He must’ve sounded so callous a moment ago. “That was uncouth. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Fortunately, Merlin seems more than willing to wave that away. “Don’t worry about it, Arthur. I didn’t take any offense. I mean, I know how Camelot feels about magic.” His voice flattens on the latter words.

“Not all of Camelot is so pigheaded,” Arthur corrects, feeling some strange need to make that clear. They’d spoken of it, briefly, three weeks ago when he’d explained Morgana’s absence, but he’d never really said much to clarify his own stance. “My father expects me to share his views, but I’d rather form my own opinions.”

“And what is your opinion?” It’s a fair enough question, though Merlin’s expression is wary. He’s still taut and his eyes are narrowed.

Arthur shrugs. “That I don’t have enough experience with it to form an opinion. It was long gone from the kingdom by the time I was old enough to talk. My mother spoke of it occasionally, and never as anything other than a tool that was no more good or bad than the man wielding it. My father,” he sighs. Maybe someday he’ll understand his father’s vehement hatred. “Well, he’s always coaxed me to treat it the same as he does.”

“That’s fair,” Merlin replies with a slow nod. “That you’re willing to make up your own mind, I mean.”

“It’s the least I can do, if my mother speaks true. And, I can’t imagine she would ever lie to me.” He’s goes quiet; he’s missing his mother – court affairs have kept his visits brief and her health hasn’t rallied – but he doesn’t want to bring down the mood. He’s got a rare chance for a night ‘off’ and plans to enjoy what remains of it.

“But enough talk about magic,” Arthur says loudly, popping the cork on a wine cask with his dagger. “C’mon, let’s sit down.” He waves them to a pair of dusty, moth eaten cushions near a wall. As they get settled he says, “We’ve another issue to address. Well, two other issues, really.” He casts about a moment and realizes he forgot to bring goblets or cups.

Locking eyes with Merlin, he tips up the cask and pours a stream of fruity – not too sweet – wine into his open mouth.

It’s enough to make Merlin snort and roll his eyes, but it seems to drag him out of whatever dour thoughts were troubling him. “Those two things being Elena and Vivian, I assume?” Merlin asks as he accepts the stout wooden vessel. He tries to copy Arthur’s rather elegant pour and ends up sputtering and dribbling wine down his tunic.

“Precisely,” Arthur responds before rescuing the wine, and then he reachs over to use Merlin’s own neckerchief to dab at the droplets on his face.

He realizes what he’s doing only after the wine is gone, and he lets the damp cloth fall from his fingers. His first reaction to such over-familiarity is to flush and begin to stammer an apology – and possibly blame the wine – but Merlin doesn’t look at all bothered, so Arthur takes a cue from him. “There,” he says firmly but with a bit of cheek. “Now you just need to learn to drink properly.”

Merlin wrestles the cask back. “I’ll show you proper drinking. I was raised with Gwaine, after all!” This time he manages to angle the spout closer to his pursed lips and more or less _sucks_ several hearty mouthfuls of liquid from the barrel.

A single crimson drop escapes the corner of his mouth. It wends its way down Merlin’s throat as he swallows, before being absorbed into his scarf.

He lowers the cask with a breathy, “Ahhh. That’s how it’s done.”

Throat suddenly quite dry, Arthur nods dumbly. “Uh yes. It is. Well done.”

Instead of ducking his head or looking away, Merlin continues to stare brazenly back at Arthur. He doesn’t know what it means… or, what he wants it to mean.

His best defense is often avoidance, so he steals back the wine, wets his parched mouth and then says, “So, the Princesses.”

Merlin stares a few seconds longer and then he inclines his head, like he’s accepting Arthur’s need to change the subject. (Though Arthur gets the feeling Merlin isn’t going to let him get away with that too much longer).

“Yes, the ladies. What do we do about them?”

Arthur lets his head thunk back against the stone wall. “I have no idea. I thought women were supposed to get a long and gossip.” He blows out a sigh. “I wish Morgana were here.”

“Was she good at getting along and gossiping?” Merlin asks, sounding genuinely curious.

“Oh, gods no.” Arthur blurts with a splutter of laughter. “Morgana’s worse than the two of them combined. But, she’s devious and clever and smart as the day is long. She’d figure out a way to fix all this.”

“We should pit them against each other,” Merlin suggests after thinking quietly a moment. “Get them fighting over you.”

Arthur snorts. “I’d rather not do anything to encourage either one of their attention, thank you.”

“No?” Merlin asks, cagily.

“Nooooo,” he shakes his head hard, with emphasis.

“Oh, well then.” <strike></strike>

Arthur doesn’t know what to make of his little smile. He looks like he’s about to say more, and Arthur leans forward in interest.

“What about getting the attention of–” he starts and then his eyes go wide. “Wait, I’ve got it!”

“What about whose attention?” Arthur croaks out, not at all desperately.

“Nothing, never mind,” Merlin waves that away. “I’ve figured out how to get you free of them both.’

Recognizing the lost moment for what it was, Arthur gestures for him to continue.

“Instead of pitting them against each other, get them both pitted together against you!”

Arthur can feel his mouth split into a wide, somewhat silly grin. “Merlin, that’s brilliant!” he exults, and toasts Merlin with the wine. After he passes it back over for Merlin to take a drink, Arthur stares expectantly, waiting for the explanation.

Several minutes pass, the two of them just staring at each other in silence.

Finally, Arthur clears his throat. “And, uh… how do I do that?”

Merlin gives a loose-shouldered shrug. “Dunno.”

“_Mer_lin,” Arthur grouses, drink and exasperation both putting a heavy emphasis on the first syllable. “I thought you figured a way to get me free of them?”

“I did. Get them pitted against you. That’s as much of a solution as I’ve got.” He’s still occasionally offering little hitches of his shoulders.

Arthur sighs. “I suppose I could work harder to offend them? Or, maybe play them off each other?”

“Oh!” Merlin snaps his fingers several times in quick succession. “I’ve got it!”

Fixing him with an amused glower, Arthur replies, “You said that already.”

“No, you prat. This is a new idea.” Merlin’s taunt is accompanied by a playful elbow jab. “It’s not pitting them against you, it’s figuring out how to get them interested in each other.”

“Interested?” Arthur’s brow and voice rise.

Merlin rolls his eyes. “Well no, not like that.” He purses his lips a moment. “Well, possibly not. I don’t know. Maybe?” He seems to think on it a moment, and then shakes his head. “Okay, that’s neither here nor there. What I’m talking about is finding a way to get Vivian interested in Elena.”

“Impossible,” Arthur scoffs. “She took one look at Elena and immediately dismissed the poor girl as inferior.”

“Yes, but what if you convince Vivian that Elena just needs the guiding hand of a wiser, more worldly princess? Do you think Vivian could be convinced to take Elena under her wing?”

The idea definitely has merit. Arthur picks up the half-empty flagon and takes a long pull, swishing wine around in his mouth while he thinks on it. “You know, Merlin,” he says after he swallows, “I think you may be on to something.”

Merlin accepts the cask as Arthur hands it over but doesn’t drink immediately. “You know, if it works, it might free you up for another hunting or fishing trip.” The grin that puts dimples in his cheeks flashes a moment before he puts the spout to his lips and drinks deep. 

The line of his throat as he swallows is enthralling and when he finally lowers the flagon, wine has stained his lips the color of berries. Arthur’s inhale is embarrassingly audible when Merlin’s pink tongue darts out to swipe away a drop that lingers at the corner of his mouth. The eyes that meet Arthur’s do so under heavy lids, and thick lashes lowered demurely.

There’s a very long moment where Arthur is tempted to… Well, he’s still not sure what he’s tempted to do, really.

To stave off that strange sensation, Arthur barks out a forced laugh that scrapes his dry throat, and hurries to snag the wine. His chiding “learn to share, Merlin” is said roughly and when he desperately drinks down what little remains, he can feel the liquid fighting its way past something thick and painful, like his heart is settled at the base of his throat.

With the cask empty, Arthur sets it aside, using the moment to look away and to drag a sleeve over his wine-sloppy mouth. When he finally looks back, it’s to see that Merlin’s gaze has also shifted. He’s looking upward, seeming to study the roof of the chamber.

“Something interesting up there?” he asks, voice slightly rough.

“Actually, yes.”

Arthur follows his gaze and frowns. “It’s so dark. How can you see anything?” The candles flickering around the room cast very little light upward.

“It’s tough to make out, but there are markings carved into the stone, circling the room.”

Even after he squints, Arthur still can’t spy anything in the gloom. He stands, taking up one of the candles from its sconce to hold it up as far as he can reach. He has to blink away after-images of the dancing flame, since he very idiotically looked right at the candle, but after a few moments his eye re-adjust and he can finally make out the faint bas relief.

“Huh. Those are interesting.” As he studies the dozen marks, turning slowly deasil to take them all in, he hears Merlin rise and then feels it when he steps in close. “What do you make of them?” If his voice is still slightly shrill, he blames the wine.

“I think I’ve figured why this is called the Sorcerer’s Tower,” Merlin says, voice soft and too-near, like he’s speaking right into Arthur’s ear.

“Oh? Why uh… is that?” Arthur asks, trying to ignore the heat of Merlin’s breath on his neck.

There’s amusement in Merlin’s voice when he explains, “Those are mage runes. Druidic symbols that represent the elements, seasons and quarters of a map.” He raises his arm, pointing them out one by one. “The first group are fire or flame, and autumn and West, and those three are winter and water and North, and those are earth and spring and East.”

“The last are air, summer and South, I take it?” Arthur finishes.

“Right, exactly.”

It’s an opportunity to bring up the magic, just as his father wants, but Arthur is reluctant to do so. The thought makes him feel… dirty. Like he’d cheapen the enjoyable evening they’ve spent together. Merlin, however, seems to feel that this is a good opportunity to brooch the subject.

“They certainly indicate that this tower was used for sorcery at some point.”

“Oh?”

Merlin nods and this time points toward the floor. “If these stones weren’t so weathered by time and dust,” he begins, scraping a boot against the stone somewhat pointlessly, as it would take a mop and bucket to remove the layer of grime, “you might see remnants of outlines in chalk dust or ink or paint. Back when this room was in use,” he goes on, sketching imaginary lines with his longer fingers, “a sorcerer would draw wheels or circles with points to represent their corresponding symbols on the ceiling. They’d invoke certain seasons or elements or directions in aid of their spellcraft. Sometimes using bits of the very elements themselves. A bit of dirt on the marker for earth, or a bowl of water on its mark. Back then, the walls would’ve probably been lined with shelves of ingredients and all sorts of magic paraphernalia.”

He sounds wistful in a way that makes Arthur’s heart ache, like he’s imagining what this place could be like if only Arthur’s father weren’t so vehemently opposed to magic.

Then, as if he’s suddenly realized himself – or perhaps his audience – Merlin’s mouth snaps shut, and he looks away from Arthur. “Sorry, I know that’s not a subject you’re probably keen to hear much about.”

“No!” Arthur blurts out, clumsy in his need to reassure. “I mean, it is. Thank you for telling me about this. I… well, it reminds me of things my mother would sometimes share.” At that, Merlin turns to look at him.

“She had magic?”

Arthur shakes his head. “No. I mean, I don’t believe so.” He’s never even considered the possibility. “She talked of it in the past, though. Things she’d seen and remembered.” He reaches up to rub at the back of his neck, feeling awkward for no reason he can name. “I didn’t understand then. This was… well, many years ago, before her health began to really decline. But, looking back, I’d guess she had friends who were…” he hesitates and then forces the word out. “Sorcerers.”

Merlin doesn’t acknowledge his hesitation, only inclines his head thoughtfully. “That would make sense. I mean, why else would there be a chamber like this in Camelot?”

“Right,” Arthur agrees rather inanely.

A moment of quiet stretches between the two of them – each lost in their own thoughts – but it’s not stilted or uncomfortable. Arthur feels oddly serene.

“We should go,” Merlin says softly, his voice low enough that it hardly disturbs the stillness.

Frowning, Arthur asks the question with an inward dip of his brows.

Reading him adroitly, Merlin gestures to one of the narrow, arrow-slit windows. “From the position of the moon, it’s getting late. I worry our father’s might be keen to keep track of our whereabouts for a few days.”

“Right.” Despite his agreement, Arthur doesn’t want this night to end. This respite is the first time he’s felt truly at ease in days. “Although, a few more moments wouldn’t hurt, right?”

This time it’s Merlin who speaks with the motion of an arching brow.

Arthur casts about a moment, scrambling for any excuse to linger. He finds his eye drawn back to the ceiling. “There are other symbols up there, more towards the middle. What’re those?” He’d missed them at first, due to the gloom and the fact that the roof is somewhat conical, but with his eyes dark-adapted once more, the faint lines and shadow are made visible.

“Ah,” Merlin says with a strange sigh. “Well, those are other symbols of … things a Sorcerer might invoke. The moon and the sun. Time or the stars. The past and the future.” That odd exhale sounds again. “And life… or death.”

That tone – reluctance if Arthur had to name it – makes sudden sense. Death and magic… things that Uther has always cautioned are intertwined. Instead of the wariness he knows he should be feeling, has been lectured into him for the whole of his life, Arthur finds himself overwhelmed by curiosity.

“Why would someone need to invoke death?”

“Arthur, perhaps I’m not the best –”

“But you are,” Arthur insists before Merlin can finish his protest. “I mean. I’d rather hear it from you. Besides, if I asked, my father would lie to me, and my mother… well, there was a time she might’ve answered the question if she was able. But I never knew to ask it. Gaius might want to tell me, but he’s always been cautious about discussing such things due to my father’s laws. Who else would I go to? Geoffrey?” He manages a sputter of laughter.

Merlin doesn’t echo it, but he does grin. “Definitely not Geoffrey. The man knows his genealogy and histories of the kingdoms, but nothing of magic.”

“You don’t have to,” Arthur adds. “I mean, I really shouldn’t even be asking.” He lets his shoulders slump and sighs heavily.

It’s not until his chin falls to his chest and he pushes out a lower lip that he catches Merlin’s eyeroll in his periphery.

“All right, fine,” Merlin grouses. “But only to stop you playing at the dejected princeling.”

Arthur smirks.

“I’ll ignore how well you played me just there,” Merlin chides, “but don’t think that looking all hangdog and pathetic will work every time.”

“Don’t worry,” Arthur reassures him, “I’ll only stoop to doing so on special occasions.”

At least Merlin looks patiently amused now, rather than cagey. “That’s good to know. Wouldn’t want a skill like that to get overused. Too often and I’ll become immune to your charms.” He smirks.

It’s teasing, playful banter and it feels friendly, but it’s also so much heavier than that. Arthur keeps reaching these little plateaus with Merlin, but never quite feels ready to fling himself over the edge; so, he draws back and looks away and up again, clearing his throat roughly. “So, uh. The sigil for death?”

He hears Merlin’s sigh, but it’s sharing breath with an amused snort, so he doesn’t think Merlin’s too upset with him for veering away yet again.

“Yes, well, the death sigil is that one to the left, in the middle. It’s the one that’s shaped like a circle with a line in the middle.”

He pauses a moment so Arthur nods. 

“So, in magic or ritual, death is simply part of the cycle. Another element, of sorts. Usually it signifies an ending or change. It’s not really meant to do anything malicious or evil.” He pauses again, a low hum – like he’s considering how best to explain it – passes his lips nearly inaudible. “Um, a druid might use the symbol for death in blessing a harvest, for example. Inviting the natural cycle of death as it leads to spring and rebirth.”

“What do you mean?” Arthur thinks he understands, but he also likes listening to Merlin talk about these things that have been so taboo most of his life.

“Well, think of an apple orchard. Or of what’s left behind, like apples fallen from the trees and left to rot. In that case, the apples uhm, death, so to speak, will nourish the soil and help to promote a good harvest the next year.”

It does make a certain sense. Death comes to everyone, eventually and is just a normal part of life. “I think I understand.” He looks to Merlin and sees that he’s now got his eyes half-lidded, and he’s still gazing upward. He looks like whatever he sees before his eyes has taken him scores of leagues away. Arthur stares for as long as he thinks he can get away with it. Merlin’s profile is rather ridiculously becoming, limned only by firelight that gives a hint of gold to all his features. When Merlin finally blinks and seems to come back to himself, Arthur coughs. “Um, I don’t suppose there’s anything up there that would help with convincing two princesses to get along?”

Merlin laughs in a startled burst. “I’m afraid not,” he says once he’s got his grin under control.

“Shame. Would’ve made this situation with Vivian and Elena easier.”

Turning to him, that amusement turning to something more thoughtful, Merlin offers, “I think you’ll manage it, Arthur. You don’t need magic to convince someone that you’re a prat.”

“Hey!” Arthur shoves at Merlin’s shoulder, but he’s laughing at the same time.

“C’mon,” Merlin says, “we really should get back.”

This time, Arthur reluctantly agrees. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. After you.” He gestures for Merlin to precede him out of the tower and then closes the door behind them.

“Oh, wait!” he pauses halfway down the first turn of the stairwell. “I forgot the rest of the candles. Wouldn’t want to start a fire up there.”

Behind him, Arthur hears Merlin mutter something, but it’s too low to catch and he hurries back up the half-dozen steps. When he opens the door again, however, it’s to see that the room is dark and not a candle is still lit. “Huh.”

Merlin steps up behind him, looking past. His voice and breath on Arthur’s nape send a shiver down his spine.

“Must’ve blow out from the wind of the door closing,” Merlin says sagely.

It’s a logical enough explanation, and Arthur nods. “Yeah, I’m sure you’re right.” But as they continue back down the winding staircase, Arthur still feels that odd frisson tingling at the back of his neck. He doesn’t know quite what to make of it.

They part ways once they reach the corridor to the guest wing, wish each other night tidings, and Merlin adds a cheeky, “Good luck with the princesses tomorrow!”

He grumbles something rude and mostly unintelligible back, and Merlin’s warm laughter carries with him all the way to his room.

The next morning he’s entirely prepared to begin waging his secret plot to convince Vivian and Elena that he’s not worth their time. He’s got plans, and strategies… but, in the end, all it takes is a few whispered suggestions from Arthur to plant the idea in Vivien’s head over breakfast. Things like, “Oh, that poor Elena. Never had a mother’s guidance. Probably not another high-born woman in the kingdom to help her along either.” And, “Have you seen her nursemaid? It’s no wonder she’s lacking the graces of a proper noble. I imagine she could be quite lovely given the input of a proper lady.”

Vivien seems to view that as a challenge, and she immediately takes a quite befuddled Elena under her wing. At first, her nursemaid Gruenhilda is vehemently against the idea, and Vivien protests to Arthur and her father and anyone who’ll listen that ‘that vile woman’ is interfering with her effort. It only aids matters when Grunehilda mysteriously vanishes one night, with nary a word to her charge or King Godwyn. Arthur suspects that Vivian’s incessant complaining finally pushed the old woman to find a kinder, less aggressive mistress.

Whatever the cause, over the next few days the change in Elena is staggering.

When she’s presented to the court at the next feast four days later – this one celebrating the arrival of King Alined of Deorham – she’s poised and beautiful with nary a hair out of place and her smile and gown sparkling. Arthur beings to worry that Vivian might grow jealous of her pupil, but from the way the two chatter happily – ignoring him entirely – it’s clear he’s got nothing to worry about. When he does listen in to their discussions, it becomes obvious that a bit of Elena has rubbed off on Vivian as well. She still makes her cutting remarks about everything and sundry, but they’re less cruel and spoken with mild amusement rather than pure venom and spite. They make Elena giggle in her high-pitched, hiccupping way (obviously the one thing Vivian couldn’t teach away) and Vivian just snickers wickedly as well.

During the meal, Arthur’s able to excuse himself from their presence with little more than a “if you’ll pardon me, your highness and your highness, but I’d like to check in with my men,” that’s barely acknowledged by either woman. Though Elena does flash him a quick smile, Vivian only dismisses him with a flick of her fingers.

His father doesn’t even chastise him when he begins to forego the head table entirely. He’s able to join Merlin and their knights and once again, feasts become events he enjoys to a ridiculous degree.


	8. Chapter 8

Two days later, a page finds Arthur in the corridor; he and Merlin are heading to the practice fields to oversee the installation of a new set of ranged targets.

“Your Highness,” the young man calls out from the end of the hall. He jogs until he’s caught up to them and rocks to a halt. “Your father would like you to join him in the great hall, immediately.” He looks past Arthur to Merlin. “Your father calls for you also, Prince Merlin.”

“Thank you,” Arthur nods to dismiss the boy and then he shoots a look at Merlin as they change direction and head towards the great hall. “What do you think this is about?”

Merlin shrugs. “King Rodor is due in tomorrow. And Bayard’s last missive said he’d be arriving from Mercia in a matter of days. Perhaps something’s changes with their plans?”

The idea of the King of Mercia coming to Camelot has certainly given Arthur pause. There’s no love lost between the two Kingdoms.

“Hmm, maybe.” Arthur replies, noncommittal; he doesn’t think his father would bother to send a page to notify them of schedule adjustments. Uther shares the daily schedule every evening for the following day, and has it delivered by Arthur’s manservant.

They reach the great hall before Merlin can answer. Pushing the doors open reveals that Uther is there with Balinor as well as the remainder of the Southern Kings.

“Ah, Arthur,” Uther calls out, beckoning him over. “You must hear this.”

Arthur steps up to his father’s side, while Merlin does the same, slotting into place beside Balinor.

There’s a young man standing before the Kings; he wears the livery of a Camelot guard but looks as though he’s foregone sleep for days. His tunic is bedraggled and torn, and his face is covered with faint scratches that are still so fresh as to be beaded with blood.

“It’s as I was saying, my King. I’ve got word from Whitelake that they’ve been overrun. The whole town has been put to the torch. Dozens of lives have been lost.”

“Who’s done this?” Arthur blurts out, forgetting his place a moment.

Uther ignores the misstep. “Have they any idea who attacked them?”

The guard shakes his head. “No, my lord. They’ve no idea. The only word I’ve got is that they think the men came from the northeast.”

“Mercia,” King Alined grumbles.

“Hold Alined,” Uther lifts a hand, palm out. “Essetir also lies in that direction, yet we cast no aspersions toward Balinor.” He nods to the other king.

Arthur resists the urge to snort. He’s got to give it to his father, he’s good at being petty.

Balinor ignores the slight. “I would like to get to the bottom of this. You’re right that Whitelake is very near Essetir’s borders and if these attackers fled in that direction, I fear for my own people as well.”

Uther nods sagely. “I would agree. It’s urgent we understand who is behind this attack. The timing is incredibly suspicious.”

A few of the other Kings mutter under their breath, but even Alined holds his tongue.

“Arthur, you will take a patrol to Whitelake and track down these men by whatever means necessary.”

Arthur bows, “Of course, father.”

“I’d like Prince Merlin to accompany him,” Balinor adds. “If there’s need to travel into Essetir, he knows the land.”

Uther’s expression doesn’t change, but Arthur gets the feeling he’s not entirely thrilled by the suggestion. However, Uther just nods. “Thank you, Balinor. I’m sure your son will be a valuable asset in this journey.”

Merlin inclines his head, although Arthur can see the smirk playing at his lips.

“We’ll leave right away.” Arthur gives a half-hearted bow to the rest of the Southern Kings. “If you’ll excuse us, my lords?”

He grabs Merlin by the shirtsleeve and practically drags him out of the room at a hurried trot.

They catch Leon in the hallway, apparently also having been summoned by the page.

“Sire?” Leon asks, “what news?”

“We're received word of an attack on Whitelake. Gather some men to form a patrol; we're to ride immediately.”

“Yes, sire.” Leon's acknowledging bow is perfunctory, and he spins on a heel toward the barracks.

Arthur starts to turn away, expecting his orders to be followed and needing to stop by his own chambers, when a hand on his arm stops him.

It's Merlin.

“Could we bring a few of my men as well?” he hurries to ask.

“Yes, good idea,” he agrees. “Leon!” he shouts after the knight who is already nearly at the end of the corridor.

Leon barely pauses, and calls back, “Essetir knights. Yes, sire. I'll gather them.”

“Good ears,” Merlin comments as he steps into pace at Arthur's side and they hurry through the castle.

A smile – albeit a small one – flits across Arthur's lips. “Yes. Hearing of an owl, it's been said.” They reach the hall that leads to the guest quarters. He waves Merlin on. “Meet me in front of the keep in a quarter of a candlemark. The stablemen will have your mount ready.”

Merlin nods even as he starts to jog toward his room. Arthur watches after him for only a few seconds, and then hurries to his own chamber to ready for the trip.

In very little time, Arthur and a half-score of knights – including three from Essetir – are gathered in the courtyard. As they check tack and gear, and Arthur gets his own bedroll strapped to Virtue's saddle, he notices Merlin coming out of the doors, Balinor at his side. The pair pause, and hold a low-voiced discussion, heads ducked close together. There’s a moment where they both glance over, like Arthur is the topic of their private conversation. Whatever is said, Merlin looks frustrated, perhaps even a little defiant, but eventually he bows his head and Balinor pats his son on the shoulder.

Merlin's mare is only a few feet away, standing dutifully for her groom, and when Merlin reaches her, he offers Arthur a quick nod, but says nothing of the words he spoke with his father. It rankles, but Arthur pushes the discomfiture away to focus on the task at hand.

The patrol rides out, Arthur at the vanguard, leading them through the lower town and then through the postern gate. Unlike some of the recent excursions from the city, this group is quiet and focused, intent on reaching the small town as quickly as possible. It's at least a two-day ride when done at a casual traveler’s speed; he's hoping to cut that time down near in half.

They keep their mounts at a ground-eating pace; one that doesn't allow for much chatter between the men. Although, Arthur does notice that it feels strangely 'right' to be riding out with Merlin at his side. Even though he knows that Merlin's not much of a swordsman, still there's something about having... well, a friend, at his side who he feels he can trust. And though he considered Leon and Elyan and the other knights his friends, Merlin is something he's not quite used to: an equal. He finds himself longing to ask Merlin his opinion on his plans and strategy and a plethora of other things as well.

Those thoughts worry him because Merlin is the one that's supposed to be trusting him. Fortunately, he's able to push those concerns to the back of his mind, dwelling instead on what awaits them in Whitelake.

They slow only when the sun begins to dip below the distant trees and Arthur finally calls them to a halt just before full dusk. The men are well-versed in their roles in setting up camp, trading and negotiating responsibilities amongst themselves like they've been working together for years, rather than just a few weeks. 

Even Merlin steps in to do his share; Gwaine and Percival teasing him about his cooking skills while he readies the cook-pot, and Arthur gets the impression there's an inside joke there. Leon and Elyan are quick to join in the banter. Arthur has noticed that the four of them – sometimes five with Lancelot, if he's not too busy mooning over Gwen – have become thick as thieves. If pressed, he'd have to admit he's considered tempting Essetir's two knights to consider a change of allegiance, though in all seriousness, he knows their loyalty to Merlin is firm and unquestionable, to say nothing of their fast friendship.

Merlin must be eager to tease them back, because he volunteers to cook. Even after Arthur explains they've got camp rations – dried meat, fruits and trail bread – from the Camelot kitchen and they've no need to get out the stew pot. Merlin just shakes his head and – grinning – tells him, “No, I'd like to cook.”

Arthur's not one to stand in the way of a hot meal, so he acquiesces easily enough. It's rather interesting to watch Merlin busying himself at the fire's side. While rubbing down the horses, Arthur sneaks glances at him now and then over the back of which ever mount he's currying, and once in a while he has to duck his gaze when Merlin catches him.

He understands the humor in the situation a few minutes after Merlin declares his stew complete and ladles out plentiful bowls to each of them. Arthur had expected the food to be awful, but apparently Percival and Gwaine's playful barbs were meant to prod Merlin into cooking for them, if only to prove them wrong.

The stew – thick with meat and savory vegetables – is delicious and he wonders how Merlin could've managed something so flavorful and hearty out of their meager stores. Perhaps he carries spices with him as a matter of habit? Whatever the explanation, Arthur isn't fussed, as his effusive praise gets him a second helping. Over his refilled bowl, Arthur comments on his admitted surprise at Merlin's culinary skill.

Gwaine must sense the befuddlement on Arthur's mind because he throws a wink across the fire at him. “We always make him cook,” he tells Arthur. “Prince or no prince, he's got the best hand at stew of anyone I know.”

Percival nods. “Yeah. You should try his pheasant. It's amazing.”

Ducking his head at the praise and focusing on scraping the last morsels from his bowl, Merlin mutters, “I only do it to save my belly the anguish of your piss-poor attempts to feed us.” He looks up at Arthur, a quick but smiling glance. “Cooking is no different from crafting a healing draught or planning a patrol. It's all a kind of alchemy, isn't it?” When he looks over the flames at Arthur again, this time his eyes and pert grin are twinkling with mystery. Arthur's transfixed for a long moment, until Merlin drops his chin again. “All of it requires knowledge of the right ingredients and how to bring them together to create something that works.”

“I'm not complaining, Merlin,” Arthur hurries to say. “This is delicious.”

Even with the amber firelight throwing golden highlights over his skin, Arthur thinks he can see Merlin's cheeks go pink.

Clearing his throat, Merlin adds. “Well, it's also right to mention, I let those oafs cook porridge on a patrol once. We were all down with the flux for two days.” Snorting, he shakes his head. “I mean... porridge? How do you ruin that?”

The laughter is contagious, and Arthur continues to chuckle and smile as the banter goes on around him, but he's also distracted by the notion that he's never cooked a meal for his men. They'd never consider asking it. And he can see a bit of befuddlement on the face of some of his knights – particularly those that haven't gotten to know Essetir's knights – at this show of casual or even lacking deference. With very few exceptions, a Knight of Camelot would never openly mock his Prince. It's another of those things that highlight the differences between Camelot and Essetir, and another area where he finds Camelot lacking.

As the teasing and chatter winds down and the fire begins to burn low, Arthur chivvies them all to their bedrolls. They've had a long day in the saddle and have hours more riding to look forward to. Whoever set-up their sleeping pallets – and he suspects Gwaine – has laid his only an arms-length from Merlin's. Usually when trying to sleep under the stars on patrols or battle campaigns, Arthur struggled to rest; his mind churned with thoughts of the coming days and worry over his men. But, laid on his side and staring at Merlin's profile – limned in the thinnest red-gold from the fading campfire, close enough to hear the soft susurrus of his faintly whistling exhales – he finds sleep comes easily.

He's roused the next morning before the sun's fully breached the horizon, although it's Leon nudging him awake rather than his own internal hourglass for once. Leon's always been an early riser and usually Arthur follows suit. Being woken rankles for no reason Arthur can put a finger on, and he's a bit grumbly when he pushes off his cloak and eases up to stretch out slept-on-the-ground limbs. Around him, the others are coming awake as well, Leon shaking shoulders and nudging his boot into legs here and there. He spies Percival – still in his bedroll, but sitting up – as he prods at Gwaine, who merely tugs his cloak over his head in response. Only a few feet away, Merlin is blinking away sleep and there's something quite put-out in his expression that fills Arthur with an odd warmth.

“Not a fan of mornings?” Arthur asks softly.

“Not exactly,” Merlin admits, his voice gravelly. “Something about sleeping outside never seems to suit me.” He turns his head to the side, rolling it against the thickened lump of fabric that acts as a pillow, and gives Arthur a slow once-over. “Shall I assume you're one of those 'awake with the sun and just as bright' types?”

Arthur huffs out an amused breath. “Usually,” he admits. “Bit less so, this morning.”

“Oh?”

He can only shrug. “Leon had to wake me. Usually it's the other-way-round. I don't normally sleep quite so well on the trail, so I'm up with the stars and awake with the sun.” He lets a brief, playful smile slide across his face. “Maybe it was having such a good meal that acted as a soporific?”

Merlin returns the fleeting grin. “Perhaps?”

Further conversation is interrupted by the camp coming to life. The same swift efficiency as the night prior as bedrolls are made up, horses are readied, and breakfast – cold and to be eaten in the saddle – is shared out, sees them in the saddle and ready to ride as the sun makes itself fully known.

The patrol’s pace is rapid – stretches at full gallop when the terrain allows for it – but careful not to spend the horses too hard. It gets them to the edges of the village of Whitelake just after midday.

Arthur reins in abruptly at seeing the devastation laid out before him. At least half of the building have gone under the torch and many of the piles of char still smolder. Worse still, here and there bodies lay where they have fallen. On the edge of the village he spies pyres belching clouds of black smoke into the air, where the surviving villagers are dealing with the rest of the victims.

“Damn,” he mutters. “it's worse than I thought.”

Merlin murmurs his agreement; his voice carrying no further than the distance between their mounts.

They ride into the village and Arthur hates how helpless he feels. The bedraggled remainder of soot-covered and blood-spattered townsfolk hardly glance up from their tasks – some rummaging through debris, other's tending wounded, far too few for the mid-sized village – and there's no relief in their eyes at seeing envoys from Camelot. Their protection comes far too late.

An elderly man with a long, greying beard and leaning heavily on a walking stick meets them in the remnants of the village square. It’s central well still stands, although the bucket hoist has been dislodged. Arthur dismounts and steps over to greet him with a deferential bow.

“It's Prince Arthur of Camelot himself, isn't it?” the old man says, rheumy eyes narrowing to squint at him.

Arthur's not entirely surprised to be recognized; though it's been some months, he's visited Whitelake several times in recent years.

“I am,” Arthur nods. He gestures to Merlin who has handed off his reins to one of the knights and stepped up to Arthur's side. “And this is Prince Merlin of Essetir.”

Merlin bows. “I'm sorry that we're meeting under such terrible circumstances.”

“I'm Bowen,” the man tells them and then glances around a moment. When he looks back it's with a heavy shrug and weary sigh, “I guess I'm the Village Elder now.”

“I'm sorry,” Arthur tells him, feeling culpable for no reason he can explain. “If the patrols –”

Bowen waves that off. “Weren't nothing you or yours could do, m'lord. It were over fast.”

“Can you describe what happened?”

“Aye, I'll tell you what I know. What others have said. It ain't much, truth be told. They came at night. No warning. They were dressed for dark; hard to see. Bunch of us didn't have a clear head on what was happening until the fires started burning.” He gesticulates slightly as he speaks with one liver-spotted hand, the other gripping tight to a walking stick that’s been smoothed over by hands and age.

“Miss Addy, she's the seamstress, was up late with her colicky babe. She sees a man come into her home, quiet like, but with a big ol' pig-sticker in his hand. She hollered for Dermit, her husband. Screamed for him, really. I think that roused some of the neighbors. Bastards got Dermit, but he fought them long enough for her to get safe. But these men, they knew what they were after. Went for the men-folk first. Us olds and the women and young, seemed an afterthought.” He shakes his head, the reddened, white-rimmed eyes and tight mouth belying the matter-of-fact tone of voice.

His explanation leaves Arthur frowning. Though the details are slim, this has none of the earmarks of a typical bandit raid. “I hate to trouble you with more questions,” he begins, and Bowen dismisses his concerns again.

“Ask your questions, M'lord. If we can aid in tracking down the bastards what did this –” he breaks off with a choked sound.

Arthur reaches out and grips his shoulder a moment, and then proceeds as gently as he can. “Is there anything at all you or anyone else in the village can tell us about these men?”

“Were any of them familiar?” Merlin adds in that same careful tone. “Or perhaps wearing any sigils or bearing the colors of any kingdom?”

Bowen shakes his head. “Nay. Not a one. As I said, cloaks were dark, plain. Same as their clothes. Even when the fires were high and we could get eyes upon them, it was uncanny how like they all were. They'd rubbed coal-dust on their faces.”

Whoever was responsible for the attack, it’s clear they don’t want to be discovered.

“How many came?”

Bowen shrugs. “Can’t rightly say for sure. Two dozen, at least.”

“Are there any bodies we can examine?”

It’s a good question and he’s glad Merlin asked it. If they could find even a forgotten sigil or the colors of a kingdom on one of the bodies, it might give them a clue.

Again, that frustrated head-shake as Bowen explains, “Nay. They left none behind. Not a one. Though they were quick to overcome us at first, once folk rallied, we put up a good fight. There are a few of us who've known battle, though it's skill little used these days except to fend off wolves or some shite thieves. Nothing like this.” He looks around again, expression too-blank, like he's not seeing the devastation and instead watching the events of that evening play out again. “Took down at least two, likely three. Two fer certain. But they gathered their dead and their wounded. Carried them all out as they finally fled, quick as they'd come.”

A woman approaches, an infant in a shoulder-sling cradled again her chest. Her face is streaked in dirt and ash and the hem of her plain peasant gown is tattered and rusty with blood.

“Miss Addy,” he nods to her. “This here is Prince Arthur from Camelot and Prince Merlin of Essetir.” He invites her closer. “This is Addy,” Bowen tells them.

She doesn't extend a hand, but Arthur bows low giving her the deference normally used for those of equal station. He doesn't feel worthy of his own at this moment. “My condolences for your loss, my lady.”

Merlin echoes him.

Her eyes are bloodshot, and streaks line her cheeks where tears have tracked through the clinging dust, but her chin is high and mouth set in resolve. “They dirtied their clothes,” she says in a voice that's raw – likely from screaming. “Those cloaks and all. They wore armor, chain and leather and the like. Marked those up with charcoal, to keep 'em from shining.” With her free arm she holds out a length of her skirt, which is marred by sooty smudges.

“One, he tackled me. Trying to quiet the little one here maybe, or maybe for other wicked purpose.” She shrugs like the reason matters little, and then bares her teeth. “I gave him a knee to the bollocks and he howled and rolled off, and I ran like the devil himself were on my heels. There're some who'll tell you these weren't men. That they were spirits of some manner.” She shakes her head vehemently and spits at the ground. “Don't you go believin' 'em. These were nothing but men all right. Just them without balls enough to come at us in the day. Cowards and dogs, the lot.”

“Aye,” Bowen agrees.

“Thank you, Addy, for coming forward. I know this must be difficult.”

“They rode off north,” she adds, barely acknowledging Arthur’s concern with a derisive sniff. “One of the lads, Mitchell, he's down at the inn where the rest of the hurt are gathered. But he were outside the gates when it all happened. He's a shepherd; runs a flock just north 'o town. He saw the men come riding in, and he tried to get word out but was too far afield. He then ran afoul of them scarperin’ like the cowardly curs they were. Got a nasty slice to the belly, but he saw which way they took to the woods.” She points. “North it were, and just a bit east.”

“Essetir,” Merlin says, frowning.

“Aye,” the woman agrees, her eyes narrowing. “That'd be my guess. It's been on a score of years we've had peace from those lands. Since that upstart Cenred were routed.”

Arthur glances sideward at Merlin – she's talking about how Balinor became ruler over the lands of Essetir. “This wasn't the men of Essetir,” he hurries to say, with the need to defend Merlin.

Addy doesn’t argue but she continues to scowl.

“It's more likely it's someone trying to upset the treaty,” Merlin suggests. “Camelot and Essetir as well as the other Southern Kingdoms talk of peace.”

Suddenly the motive and timing of this attack takes on a whole new meaning to Arthur. He wonders if that's what was intended all along. This certainly wasn't random. It was planned and orchestrated to cause a disruption at a critical time during the talks.

He considers the various Kings who meet in parley even now; wonders who among them might be involved and seeking to sew unrest even as they speak of peace. The speculation that it might be Cenred looking to reclaim territory of his own still makes sense, but so does the possibility of treachery from a King wishing to upset the treaty. Arthur’s immediate suspicion goes to Mercia, as Mercia borders Essetir to the north and Camelot as well, but there are years of conflict coloring his judgement. He'll need to talk it over with Merlin. He knows Merlin will have insight as well into Essetir's most likely enemies.

Arthur looks around again, seeing a people who have suffered through no fault of their own. He doesn’t feel the need to disturb anyone else’s grief with his questions. They’ve gotten very little, as was the bandits’ intent, but it’s enough to go on.

They thank Bowen and Addy for coming forward.

“You just promise me you’ll get the bastards,” Addy says.

It’s folly to agree, but Arthur finds himself nodding. “We will. You’ve my word on that.”

She huffs at first like she doesn’t quite believe him, but finally gives a curt little nod as well, apparently taking him at his word.

Before Bowen parts, Arthur offers, “I’ll leave a few of my knights behind. They can aid in the clean-up as well as offer protection should any of these men return.”

“We thank you for that, Prince Arthur.”

Arthur promises additional aid as well, and resources – foodstuffs, building materials and medicine – sending another two knights back to Camelot to report to the King, arrange for additional patrols along the borders, and to see his word is kept.

He'd go himself but he's eager to track this rogue group of mercenaries and find out what he can about who they really are and what their true purpose is.

The company is down to seven when they leave Whitelake and pick up the trail of the marauders. Arthur isn't so concerned with the numbers they might face as he is with finding these men and establishing an understanding of what it will take to defeat them. They need to fathom them out first.

The ride northeast, towards the borders of Essetir, is slower going than their days' earlier journey. They must follow scarce tracks and hidden trails – as the path of the bandits goes off the narrow cart-wheel road almost immediately outside the village. Although, for as much as these bandits tried to hide their identity and cover their trail, they couldn't mask their escape through the woods entirely. There's little chatter despite the slow pace. Even Gwaine and Percival are somber. Lancelot rides quietly beside Elyan and even though Arthur suspects the topic of conversation is likely geared towards their current pursuit, he does wonder if there's occasional talk of Guinevere.

Leon has taken the vanguard position. He's always been a strong tracker and he's got an eye for picking a false trail from a real one.

Merlin rides by his side, parting only when the closeness of the trees or the terrain forces them to go at single file. He's as silent as the others, but he looks thoughtful, pensive. Like he's having whole conversations in his mind. Arthur wants to ask his what it is that has him looking so distant. Although, considering the circumstances it's likely not too much of a stretch to assume he's concerned about what this attempt to misdirect blame for the attack to Essetir could do for the peace talks.

They continue as long as possible, until even Leon's keen eye is too stymied by the darkness to pick up the next hoofprint or broken branch, and finally break camp well after the sun has dipped below the tree line. It's a subdued group that sets up their camp, no jests about meals or friendly banter; everyone hurries to do their duty with quick efficiency. Horses are bedded down, and bedrolls are arranged, firewood is collected, and a campfire started. Despite the fire, they settle for cold rations again and no one complains.

“Merlin,” Leon asks after he sets aside his empty trencher.

Merlin looks up from where he's idly picking at a piece of dried venison.

“Are there any places you know beyond the borders that would make for a good hideout for men such as these? Caves or old ruins or encampments?”

Merlin frowns thoughtfully and looks over to his men. “Lancelot, when was the last time we had any word from Baybridge?”

Scratching at his chin, Lancelot answers. “Just before we left for Camelot. Perhaps two months past?”

“Think that's time enough for bandits to overrun and set-up?” Gwaine queries.

Lancelot grimaces and nods.

“Baybridge is small village built around the ruins of an old fortress,” Merlin explains. “The keep has gone long unused except a few below-ground sections being used as root-cellars, but there were some outbuildings that the local farmers made use of. It's a small settlement, perhaps a score of farmers and families.”

“If that,” Percival adds.

“An easy route if this group came upon them en masse?” Elyan suggests, his tone grave.

Reluctant, Merlin nods. “I didn't want to think that might be where they're at, but the direction we're headed…” He trails off and shrugs, the movement jerky and sharp, like his whole body is tense. “As Lancelot said, we send patrols through all the northern towns and villages every few weeks, at least once a season. If it was overtaken by these men, it happened fast and I worry that... well, they've likely entrenched in the old fort itself.”

“What are the fortifications like?” Arthur wonders. “Some of those old castles and keeps can be quite sturdy despite their age.”

“This one is,” Merlin agrees.

“Aye,” Lancelot states as well. “I've spent a few days in Baybridge myself and aided the villagers to find a lost child. A miller's boy had wandered into the underground tunnels to play and had got turned 'round in the old corridors. Some are crumbling and unpassable, but to a small and clever lad, there are many that still stand. Even more troubling is there are other tunnels and caverns below, as Baybridge sits on a high jut of land that's bordered by lowland forest and a large river. Smugglers used to frequent the area back in Cenred's day.”

Arthur thinks on what they've shared. He's angry enough that the idea of charging in appeals – he's keen for an opponent to vent the rage that's been simmering since they rode into Whitelake – but caution is the right tactic here. “I suggest we approach with stealth to confirm your suspicions. If these men have indeed claimed Baybridge as their hideaway, we'll want to scout the possible escape routes and determine the best path for an assault.”

Merlin nods. “We'll need to find a way to draw them out. If they have taken over the old keep tunnels, they'll be well fortified.”

“Yes, I expect that they will. It's too good a set-up not to take advantage from the sounds of it.” Arthur hates tunnel warfare. Fighting in the wide halls of a castle is one thing, but veritable rabbit warrens underground of tunnels both man-made and natural, with dead ends and questionable stability is the most challenging type of warfare. Worst of all, the bandits would have the clear advantage and they'd gain no element of surprise.

Elbows resting on his knees, Arthur steeples his fingers and taps them against his chin. “Unless we can figure out some other way in, we'll likely need reinforcements. Lancelot, you said you've been in these tunnels. Do you know of another way we could go in? Something perhaps these men wouldn't easily discover on their own?”

It's a long shot, but his own father took the keep of Fyrien using old smugglers passages that opened up to the waterline on the sea of Meredor when the old castle had been overrun by a warlord.

It's Percival who answers after Lancelot shakes his head. “I don’t know if anyone’s even sure if the smuggler’s tunnels are still open to the keep. And there's rumor of an old mine that may also be a way in. But I'm not sure where the entrance can be found.”

“It's one of the places the villagers suggested we search for the boy, and they spoke of sending searchers into the mine, but held off as they feared collapse.” Lancelot frowns. “So, I never did learn the location of the entrance. Also, there was some speculation of creatures inhabiting the oldest tunnels.”

“Creatures?” Elyan asks.

“Things that lurk in the dark, is all that was said. But I don't know for sure. They did say there were some branches of the mine that weren't originally excavated by men.”

“Wilddeoren?” Leon suggests with a heavy sigh.

There are similar cringes and mutterings from everyone around the fire.

“Oh!” Merlin exclaims. “I hadn't even considered that. We've never seen them outside the caves of Andor.”

“I've encountered them going through the White Mountains,” Arthur tells him. “But, a few Wilddeoren... well, we have ways around them,” he continues, ignoring Leon's groan.

“Yes, but you can't scrub enough to get rid of the smell of gaia berries,” Leon grumbles.

Arthur chuckles lightly. “Better than being a snack for a giant, naked rat.”

“Well, we've no surety that they actually reside in the mines. Nor do we even know how to find the entrance to these mines,” Merlin says pragmatically. “So, I think our plan should still be to scout the area around the ruins of the fort as much as possible. We need confirmation that this is where these men are holed up. From there we can decide what to do next.”

Arthur nods. “Agreed.”

Around the fire there are other nods and indications of agreement.

“Then we have a plan.” Merlin grins at him.

It feels surprisingly good to have Merlin's support on this. He'd worried – perhaps a bit, at first – that they might clash over strategy. He's never patrolled with someone his equal before. Although he's always been willing to take the advice of his knights, the final decision of any sort has always been with Arthur alone. There's something about Merlin’s approval, and about the faith in his eyes and the fondness of his tone that makes Arthur feel like he could charge, single-handed into battle and come out the victor, regardless of the odds. As heady as it is, it's also a bit terrifying; usually he has more battle-sense than that.

He calls for bedding down shortly after that discussion and no one protests the idea. The fire is banked, and cloaks are shaken out, and Arthur stabs his sword into the ground next to his bedroll before he settles in it. Once again, Merlin's only an arm's length away. Arthur watches him through half-lidded eyes – Merlin slips into slumber between one snuffle and shift of the cloak – not really thinking of much of anything, until he finally drifts to a restless sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

Something stirs, the faint snap of a twig cracking sounds in the silence, and Arthur's eyes flick open.

He lifts his head a few inches from the padding of his bedroll, glancing around blearily for the source of the noise. He doesn’t spot anything immediately, though it's full dark, the moonlight obscured by tree-cover. Though the stars are bright, beneath the forest canopy there's little more than faint dappling of light scattered around. Their fire is the barest warm orange glow of embers. He lays back, blinking a few moments, letting his eyes adapt and listening for further disturbance.

When he can see further than arm’s length, he turns his head, gaze immediately going first to Merlin's bedroll. Which is suspiciously empty. He rubs at his eyes with the back of a wrist, just to make sure he's not just missing the shape of Merlin beneath his cloak; but no, Merlin isn't there. As he lays there, breathing softly, he starts to pick up the sounds of tack jangling and horse hooves moving through leaf-litter. The noises are faint and growing distant.

Arthur sits up, taking stock of the rest of the men; everyone else is accounted for. It's just Merlin who's gone. He gets to his feet as quietly as possible, trying to make little noise so he doesn't disturb the others. Perhaps the right thing to do would be to wake all the knights, alert them to Merlin's absence, but something tells him to follow Merlin on his own. Whatever is going on, Merlin obviously doesn't want company.

His sword gets tucked into his belt, and he's just tying his cloak around his neck when he hears a softly spoken, “Arthur?”

He turns to see that Lancelot is awake, propped up on one shoulder, watching him.

“Are you going after him?” Lancelot asks in a barely audible whisper.

Arthur keeps his voice just as low in deference to the sleeping men. “I am. Do you–”

Lancelot interrupts before he can finish is question. “When you find him, listen to him. All right?”

Frowning, as it's a strange instruction, Arthur asks, “Why wouldn't I?”

“Just give him a chance to explain,” is the tight-lipped reply. Though his expression is almost impossible to read in the dark, Arthur gets the sense that Lancelot is warring with himself over telling Arthur any of this.

He's torn; he could stay and question Lancelot further, but the longer he does the further Merlin is getting from the camp. He's got a vague idea which direction Merlin is heading but tracking him if he gains too far a lead will likely prove impossible. Arthur blows out a silent but aggrieved breath. Finally, he gives Lancelot a curt nod and then turns to go and saddle his mount.

Lancelot's voice catches him just as he's stepping carefully into the underbrush. “If the others wake before you're back, I'll explain,” he hisses out. “We won't follow.”

Which is another strange thing to say. It gives Arthur a moment's pause, but he's bound and determined to go after Merlin at this point. He retrieves Virtue from the picket line, carrying his tack over an arm, and leads him further away from the sleepers. Once he's a safe distance – where sound won't carry far enough to disturb anyone – Arthur gets Virtue saddled and mounts up. While the horse doesn't have much better vision in the darkness, he's got a good sense of hearing and his pivoting, bell-curved ears swivel side to side as they slowly make their way through the brush and trees. Fortunately, it's not long before they come across a goat path; it's overgrown but clear enough of reaching branches and tangling thorns for a horse to pass through with relative ease.

Arthur dismounts there, searching a bare spot in the road where the soil is exposed through patchy weeds. It only takes him a few minutes to spot a fresh hoofprint – several strands of thin grass still bent and flattened into the impression – and he smiles knowing he's on Merlin's trail. He remounts and risks a little speed then.

Some distance ahead he thinks he spots the occasional flicker of light peeking through the dark tree-shadow. It hasn't the look of torch-light – the color a cold, blue-white instead of amber flame. He's got no idea what it is; faerie fire, perhaps? Or, maybe the flicker of moonlight reflecting on some shiny surface. Merlin wasn't wearing chain or other mail that he knew, but despite the incongruity of it, he knows it's something to follow.

He rides for what feels like an hour or more, and he's hard-pressed to tell how late it is based on the position of the moon, but eventually he hears a low whinny and reins in; beneath him Virtue stamps and snorts. Recognition, Arthur hopes, that the horse is picking up the scent and call of Merlin's mare. He trusts his mount’s sense of direction better than his own at that point, and he lets Virtue's reins go lax, allowing the stallion steer them off the barely-there road and back into the trees.

They wend their way through thick and slender boles for perhaps a quarter of a mile, when Arthur spies the dark shape of the chestnut mare ahead. He halts Virtue and dismounts once more and leads the horse closer. Patience is tied to a tree – reins in a loose slipknot – and apparently Merlin didn't even bother with a saddle. There's no sign of Merlin near his mare, however.

He lets the horses greet each other, lipping and snuffling, and ties his own reins to the same thin alder trunk.

Merlin can't have gone far.

Arthur is just considering the best way to track him down – the detritus beneath his feet is thick and won't allow for good scouting – when another flicker of that odd light catches his eye. It's close – only a few dozen yards away. He heads towards it, stepping quietly through the woods until they give way to a massive clearing. He pauses at the edge of the tree line. There's a bare, sloping hill in the center; Arthur's heard of these kinds of mounds referred to as 'faerie hills'. It's a large domed shape that's free of all trees and brush.

Except Merlin's standing atop this one. He's staring up at the sky expectantly and Arthur has no idea what he's doing.

He starts toward the hill, moving as quietly as he can through the thick prairie grasses, and trudges upward. Arthur's only a few body lengths away when Merlin spins around to face him. His eyes are wide; startled.

“Arthur! What... what are you doing here?”

“I should ask you the same thing, Merlin,” he barks out. “I followed you, of course. What are you doing out here?”

Merlin ignores his questions and starts to wave his hands. “Arthur, you need to go back. Leave. It's... it's important. I'll explain later.” He starts towards Arthur, all but physically trying to chivvy him down the hill.

“No, Merlin.” Arthur stands his ground, planting his feet and pushing his fists into his hips. “You'll tell me now. You left camp in the middle of the night, and you expect me not to wonder what's going on?”

“Augh,” Merlin lets out a frustrated, explosive groan. “I understand how this looks, Arthur, but please. I promise I'll explain it –”

As he continues pressing and gesturing for Arthur’s departure, Arthur notices something in the distance, over Merlin's shoulder. There's a strange dark shape blotting out starlight, and it's getting closer. He squints at it, puzzling over what it might be. It's growing too large to be some kind of owl or other night bird.

Finally noticing Arthur's distraction, Merlin bites off his cajoling mid-word and spins around. “Oh damn.”

Just as he curses, Arthur realizes that the shape flying towards them isn't just large... it's massive: with a huge wingspan, long, snakelike tail and wagon-sized reptilian head.

“Merlin,” he shouts, unthinking. “Look out.” He dives toward Merlin, tackling him to the ground as the dragon swoops low overhead. He can feel the wind of the beast's passing rushing past and the air blowing over leathery wings makes a sharp staccato noise with each flap.

“Arthur,” Merlin is calm beneath him. “Arthur, please get off me.”

“Merlin, that's a...” his words of warning trail off as he realizes that Merlin isn't struggling to get away or showing any fear. He's very still and he doesn't sound at all concerned.

“I know, Arthur. That's why I'm here.”

“Oh.” Arthur says, rather dumbly. A wash of heat rushes up his throat and burns his cheeks with embarrassment. Of course, it makes sense. Uther had explained that Merlin's father is a Dragonlord. Maybe Merlin is one too?

“Um, Arthur,” Merlin prods with a hesitant little cough. He pats at Arthur’s side. “Not that I don't appreciate the gesture but, can you let me up?”

And that's when he realizes he's still got Merlin pinned to the ground, caged in by the frame of his body. His knee is slotted between Merlin's thighs and he's got his hands pushing Merlin's shoulders into the grass. He can feel every breath Merlin takes pushing against his own chest. Their faces are only a hand-span apart.

“Oh! Right,” Arthur mutters, mortification continuing to prick hotly at his skin. “Sorry.” He scrambles to sit up, which makes them both wince, as his knee digs into a likely sensitive place and Merlin's thigh pushes into Arthur's groin and in the end it's easier just to roll off and away... Once he does, finding himself prone and sprawled akimbo on the hillside, he contemplates staying face-down in the grass to hide his escalating shame.

However, he hears Merlin getting to his feet, and what is clearly the sound of a dragon alighting to earth. So, he stands as well and brushes himself off and then moves to stand behind Merlin. The urge to draw his sword at the sight of the massive beast perched so casually in front of them is a difficult one to stay; he settles for letting a hand rest on the hilt.

“Kilgharrah,” Merlin says and inclines his head.

Arthur frowns. “What–”

But Merlin holds up a hand, shushing him.

“Young prince,” the dragon says, and Arthur falters a step. He knew that Dragonlords could communicate with the great creatures, but he didn't know that non-magical people could hear them as well. “And who is this that cowers behind you?”

Something in the tone and choice of words immediately sets Arthur on edge. He straightens and steps to Merlin's side. “I am Prince Arthur, of Camelot.”

The dragon rears his head back.

“Kilgharrah,” Merlin says again and Arthur wonders if that's some kind of command.

“Son of Uther Pendragon,” the dragon says, seeming to ignore Merlin. There's an odd eagerness to his rumbling voice.

“Kilgharrah,” Merlin repeats, his tone arch. “I may not be my father and may not have his powers yet...” he trails off, like the words hold significance and clearly intend a threat.

Cocking his massive head, the dragon studies them both a moment. He seems to come to a decision and lowers his head to the ground, resting it on crossed forelimbs. “Very well, Merlin.”

Kilgharrah, Arthur realizes, is the dragon’s name.

“My father summoned you earlier?” Merlin asks.

“He did,” Kilgharrah confirms. “And as you agreed, he sent me to meet with you. To tell you what I observed.”

Arthur tries to interrupt. “When did –”

Again, Merlin halts him with an upraised hand and a shushing noise. He'd likely protest the dismissive treatment if he weren't so out of sorts at this entire situation.

“It is as you feared, Merlin. The men that attacked the village are encamped in the remains of Baybridge.”

“And the villagers?” Merlin asks, though he doesn't sound hopeful.

Kilgharrah shakes his head. “None survived. The homes were burned.”

Merlin blows out a heavy breath. “This cannot be allowed to stand.”

“What can we do?” Arthur asks. It's not in his nature to let others make decisions when it comes to battle, but Merlin obviously has a bit more up his sleeve than he's let on.

“We can get to the bottom of this,” Merlin offers, finally deigning to speak to him. Although his focus is back on the dragon immediately after. “Do you have any idea who they're working for?”

“No.” Kilgharrah exhales a steamy breath through his nostrils. “Someone sent a raven, but I lost it in the trees.” He sounds affronted.

“Do you know which direction it flew from?” Arthur asks.

Kilgharrah lifts his head again, turning to fix his bilious gaze on Arthur. “From the direction of Camelot, son of Uther.”

This obvious derision in the dragon's tone is getting irksome. “What is your issue with me, dragon?”

Merlin attempts to interrupt again, but Kilgharrah has his full focus on Arthur now.

“My issue with you, son of Uther, is in who you are. And who your father is.”

“I do not know you,” Arthur protests. “And as for my father–”

He's cut off by the sudden snap of very sharp teeth. “Your father is the man who kept me imprisoned beneath Camelot for many months.”

Arthur frowns. “He did _what_?” He has no idea what the dragon is talking about.

“You don't know, do you?” One of Kilgharrah's scaly brows lifts. “Well that _is_ interesting.”

“Kilgharrah,” Merlin growls out, that warning tone back in his voice. “We haven't time for this. Stop this, now.”

“No, young warlock. This is something that is long owed to me. And I will speak my piece.”

Obviously unable to get the dragon to cooperate, Merlin turns to Arthur. “Look, Arthur, you should just go back–”

But Arthur's already invested in this. There's something to be learned here about his own history, about his parents, he knows it. He needs to hear this. “I would know of what you speak, dragon,” he states, boldly.

“You call me 'dragon' just as your father did.” The words are exhaled with a steamy hiss. “My name is Kilgharrah.”

Arthur gets the sense that if he's not careful, some of the next words out of the dragon' s mouth will be emphasized by literal flames. He inclines his head, and then thinks on it and bows at the waist. The same greeting he'd give any dignitary. “I apologize, Kilgharrah. It was rude of me to speak to you that way.” He can put his own version of heat in his voice when it’s called for. “And I am Arthur, not just the son of Uther.”

Kilgharrah cants his head, serpents’ eyes going narrow, but finally after a very long, very tense moment of silence, he bobs his head in acknowledgment. “Very well, Prince Arthur.”

“Thank you, Kilgharrah.” Arthur lets out a breath, relieved. “Please understand that when you talk of being imprisoned beneath Camelot, I truly know nothing about it.” He hears Merlin mutter something under his breath – possibly cautioning him, or maybe just cursing them both – but he goes on. “I would be grateful if you would tell me the truth.”

“The great king of Camelot, in his wise and sagacious ways, decided a full score of years ago that it was his imperative to drive magic and all its' ilk from his kingdom. Surely you know this?” Kilgharrah sounds only slightly mocking when he asks the question.

Arthur feels frustration building. Even a dragon knows more than he does of the history of his family and the kingdom he's one day destined to rule. He shakes his head bitterly. “I know that magic is outlawed, its' users banned from Camelot. But my father has only ever told me that he does it to keep the peace. That Camelot is better off, and that magic is nothing but dark and evil. That those who wield it are dark and evil as well.”

Kilgharrah gives another of those smoky snorts. “It is the deepest of ironies that he would feel that way, considering it is your very birth that lays at the heart of his hatred of all things magic.”

“Kilgharrah!” Merlin bites out sharply. “Please. Don't do this to him.”

Arthur jerks back at that and turns to face Merlin. Who’s looking up at the dragon with a pleading expression.

Does Merlin know as well?

“What aren't you telling me?” He asks the question to whichever of them will answer.

“Have you never wondered,” Kilgharrah asks, “why it is your mother grows weaker and weaker year after year. Why it is she harbors some resentment toward your father? And why other kingdoms welcome magic freely, but your father looks upon it with such abhorrence and scorn?”

Shaking his head, his thoughts whirling, Arthur can only say, “I don't understand,” in a voice that sounds plaintive to his own ears. “What does that have to do with my birth?”

“Young Merlin knows,” Kilgharrah tells him. “His father never chose to keep the truth from him.”

He turns to Merlin again to see him hanging his head, unable to meet Arthur's eyes. “I don't...” Arthur utters, voice cracking. “I don’t know what...someone please tell me what he's talking about.”

Merlin looks up then, his expression wrought and sorrowful. “I didn't know if you knew, to be honest,” he begins. “My father told me the story long ago. When I was just learning about magic and its' place in the other kingdoms. He explained to me why your father banished all magic from Camelot. My father was there when it happened. Your father was the one to suggest that ridding the world of dragons would aid in ridding it of magic all together.”

“What does this have to do with my mother? With me?”

“I'll explain,” Merlin says. “After his declaration, he petitioned my father to bring Kilgharrah to him under the guise of wanting to parlay with dragonkind. Instead, he imprisoned Kilgharrah–”

“And your father for a time,” Kilgharrah interjects.

Arthur staggers back a step. “What?” He's never heard even a whisper of this. All his lessons on the history of the kingdoms and all the great acts of the Pendragon dynasty that have been imparted to him over and over; none of it ever hinted at such things as imprisoned dragons or dragonlords. “No,” he shakes his head. “This cannot be.”

Merlin sighs. “I'm afraid it is. My father escaped with the help of–” he stops himself, like he's catching another secret before it slips out. “Well, a friend. My father released Kilgharrah and that's when they fled Camelot and came to Ealdor. Which is the town I was born in. It's where my mother is from. It's how they met. It was with Kilgharrah's aid that my father rescued Ealdor from the cruelty of a local warlord. And, well, I think you know the rest of how things came to be in Essetir and with Cenred being overthrown.”

That's a history Arthur's heard more than once. It had always fascinated him knowing that this foreign man – a commoner no less – commanded a dragon and with its' aid routed his enemies and brought peace and prosperity to a war-torn kingdom that then named him king. The thought that it was his father's own actions that incited these events adds a personal relevance to the lesson, but it doesn't explain everything.

“I still don't understand,” he persists. “What does this have to do with my mother? Or me?”

“It’s the very reason magic was outlawed in Camelot,” Kilgharrah says.

Merlin shoots him another glare, which the dragon pointedly ignores.

“I shouldn't be the one to tell you this, Arthur,” Merlin says, clearly reluctant as he presses on. “But I think it should come from a ... friend. Someone who...” he trails off.

There's a part of Arthur that wonders how Merlin might've ended that sentence, though it's overshadowed by the burning curiosity and need to know the truth.

“Look, in the time before you were born or even conceived, Camelot was open to all. Druids and sorcerers and all kinds of magic folk who made Camelot their home.”

“But my father said–” he starts to protest.

“I know,” Merlin says gently. “It's not the truth you've heard, but it is true.”

Kilgharrah lays his head down again, seeming to settle in for this conversation. “There was a time, young prince, that your father called those with magic ally, counselor, and even friend.”

“What?”

“Yes,” Merlin nods. “My father knew many of the people who had aided Camelot in times of drought or illness or strife. It wasn't uncommon for magic to be called upon in those days. I can't speak to how Uther truly felt about it –”

“But,” Kilgharrah interrupts, “he certainly had no compunctions about making it his tool.”

Merlin sighs wearily at the dragon.

“Then what changed?” Arthur asks. “What happened to push him so far in the other direction?”

“Your mother,” Merlin answers, still in that same careful tone. “Your parents tried to have a child. But your mother wasn't able to conceive. Your court physician, Gaius, and others examined her and declared her barren.”

“That makes no sense,” Arthur protests. But it does if...

He can't bring himself to finish the thought.

Merlin can see that he's putting it together. “Yes, they went to a sorceress called Nimueh for help. She was a friend to them both and acted as an advisor to Uther. She told them that she could help them to have a child, but that it would be costly.”

“Magic comes with a price, Prince Arthur. It must be paid.”

Though he shoots Kilgharrah yet another glare, Merlin goes on. “My father tells me that Uther and your mother turned down Nimueh's proposal. There was too much risk that the cost would be too high. To bring a new life into the world, would cost a life in return. But, as I understand it, your mother sought Nimueh out in secret and they made a pact. Nimueh is a powerful practitioner of the Old Religion and she bargained with the powers. She managed to provide Ygraine with all that she pleaded for and to prevent her from paying the cost all at once.”

Arthur's heart is pounding in his chest and his breath comes at a shallow pant. It's right in front of him now; the truth. “H-how?” he stutters. “That's why she's... why she grows weaker by the day?”

Mouth pulled down at the corners in a sorrowful frown, Merlin nods. “Yes. That's why she's ill. And why she grows weaker. Her life is waning. Every day a little bit more drains away. It is, however, tied also to the sorceress Nimueh. That was Nimueh's bargain. She cared for your mother a great deal and no more wished to see her give up her life than Uther did. But when your father learned what they had done, he turned the blame on Nimueh and on magic. He couldn’t harm Nimueh, not without harming Ygraine, so instead he found a way to cast her out, and from that day declared her, and all magic, outlaw.”

It becomes so clear to Arthur then; that contradiction in the way that Uther has always talked to Ygraine and of her. There's always been love there – fierce and proud – but bitterness too. As if he's been angry at her for the wasting illness that has sapped the strength from her. And now Arthur understands why.

And it's because of _him_.

“It's my fault,” Arthur says, as the weight of it hits him. It's staggering and he drops to his knees.

Merlin is there next to him, kneeling, in an instant. He pulls Arthur's unresisting body against his. “No, Arthur. You can't blame yourself.”

“But... this is because of me. All of this. Everything that my father has done to rid Camelot of magic and everything that's happened to my mother...” He breaks off with a strangled cry.

Merlin's hand comes up to cup the back of Arthur's neck. “Arthur, you had no say in any of this. You were something, someone that both of your parents desperately wanted. Your mother would've made that sacrifice regardless. She loves you. You can't begrudge her that.”

“And your father,” Kilgharrah adds, surprisingly kindly, “is a man deeply hurt. And feels wronged by all things magic. He couldn't put the blame on his beloved wife, so magic became the target of his grief. I cannot condone it, of course – especially what was done to me and others like me. But, I can at least understand.”

“This is...” Arthur tries to gather his thoughts, but there are no words at this point. He sits back on his haunches and brings his hands up to his face, scrubbing them from forehead to chin. He's not surprised to feel dampness on his palms. “I can't...” He drops his hands and dries them on his trousers. “I can't deal with this now. We've a band of mercenaries seeking to usurp peace in the Southern Kingdoms, to cause chaos and strife. We must focus on that.”

Merlin squeezes Arthur's neck roughly. He's silent, but his lips are pressed like he's holding back something. “All right,” he nods. “Yes. That we must do.”

The tight grip and warmth of Merlin’s hand clings for a long moment, and Arthur nearly whimpers when he finally pulls away. It feels like his only anchor to the world has just vanished. He wants nothing more than to run down the hillside and jump in the saddle and ride back to Camelot to confront his father. Or perhaps to fall into Merlin’s arms and shut the whole of the world away. But… he has a duty and the people of Camelot cannot suffer further just because he’s preoccupied with his own torment.

There will be a time to deal with all of this, after they’ve completed their mission.

Arthur looks up then, catching Kilgharrah's gaze. “Will you aide us?”

“Aide you?” Kilgharrah grumbles. “And how would you ask I do that?”

“If we go tomorrow to this fortress in Baybridge, will you help us in routing these mercenaries?”

“Arthur, what are you–?” Merlin tries to ask.

But Arthur doesn't tear his eyes away from where they're fixed on Kilgharrah, almost as a challenge.

“I ask again, young Pendragon, what would you have me do?”

“Join us in battle,” Arthur says flailing a hand like it should be obvious. “Burning them out of the tunnels,” he adds with a vicious curl to his lip, thinking of the blackened bodies in Whitelake and a crying babe, held to a soot and blood-spattered breast, who'll never know his father. “You aided King Balinor in a coupe once.”

“That was different,” Merlin starts to explain.

Despite Merlin beginning to protest however, Kilgharrah lifts his head and nods ponderously. “You speak the truth,” he admits, although he continues to eye Arthur like he's nothing more than prey to be swallowed whole for an overlong moment. Finally, he inclines his massive head again. “Very well. I will help you,” he agrees. He turns to Merlin then. “Merlin, you know how to call upon me.”

Merlin flicks an odd, sideward glance to Arthur, but then bobs his head. “Of course.”

“When you're ready,” is all the dragon replies. He lurches to all fours. “Tomorrow, then.” With a massive flap of powerful wings, he launches into the air.

Arthur watches him go, still on his knees in the dewy grass. Merlin stays silent next to him.

“We should go,” Merlin says several minutes later, long after Kilgharrah is out of sight. “So, we're rested and ready for tomorrow.”

Arthur nods and lets Merlin help him to his feet. He clings tightly to Merlin's hand and Merlin doesn't begrudge him holding on for a few moments after he's already standing. It's funny how a little gesture like that – the warmth of Merlin's fingers curled around his – helps to ground him. He gives another curt little nod and then waves Merlin on. “Let's go.”

Arthur's halfway down the hill, Merlin a few paces ahead, when Merlin slows to let Arthur get to his side. He looks over at Arthur a moment, and then back down to find his footing, and says, “I'm so sorry I didn't tell you what I knew. It's just…”

“You were warned not to,” Arthur fills in. “It's all right. I understand.” He's figured that out already. There are obviously many taboo topics that go unspoken in Camelot. It does hurt, though, that Merlin didn't share the truth; especially after Arthur opened up about his mother and shared his feelings on watching her slowly slip away. At the same time, well he's the one who's still acting on his father's orders, at least as far as his father knows. He'd be as much of a hypocrite as Uther to feel enmity toward Merlin for doing the very same. Not that he's working too hard to learn Merlin's secrets. Even now, he's got no plans to inform Uther about this meeting with Kilgharrah. In fact, he knows it would give himself some measure of peace to tell Merlin the truth about his father’s machinations.

They're just at the verges of the woods when a strident whinny of alarm shatters the night's silence.

“Patience!” Merlin yells, sprinting into the woods.

Arthur's fast on his heels.

He hears growling and yelping, and the snorts and fierce screams of a stallion, and his heart drops when they come upon a terrible scene. Though she's tugged her lead loose, Patience is standing nearby; at her feet lies a lifeless wolf with its ribs stoved in. There's another carcass – that clearly took a hoof strike to the skull – where Arthur's Virtue is still being circled by two of the rangy, starving beasts.

Arthur draws his sword and charges, hollering a battle cry. One of the wolves breaks off nipping at Virtue's hocks and leaps to attack him. He catches it with a sharp upswing through the belly. When it falls behind him, he pays it no mind. The bay stallion is still rearing, and Arthur surges toward him to fend off the final canine. But as Arthur reaches them, between the striking and flailing hooves and the snarling snapping lunges, he's unable to get at a good angle to bring his sword into play.

Virtue rears again, massy and defiant, his forelegs paw at the air and slashing the slavering wolf. The beast is knocked to his side, but rolls up, recovering quickly and he's beneath the horse now, nipping at his tender belly. Virtue twists, pivoting the whole of his body on both hind hooves to get away, but the wolf gets tangled between his rear legs, causing the stallion to stumble and slip.

He goes down, crashing to his side.

There's a sickening crack and the crunch of bones shattering, and Virtue lets out a wrenching, throaty cry.

“No!” Arthur rushes in, heedless of the danger of Virtue kicking and struggling to gain his feet.

The wolf claws its way from between Virtue's twisted hocks, yipping and dragging his hind end, back broken. Arthur delivers a merciful killing blow and then lets the sword fall as he goes to Virtue's head to try to steady the big animal. “Whoa, boy,” he croons, taking hold of his bridle, trying to forcibly get him on his feet.

A downed horse is a dead horse, as his riding master told him years ago. If he can just get Virtue to stand. But even as the stallion manages to get all four legs beneath him, when he squares his forelegs and tries to push up with his rear, he's unable to rise. He lets out another of those horrible, awful screams and crashes down again.

Virtue gives up, rolling to his belly and hanging his head, huffing out pained breaths.

“No... no...” Arthur falls to his knees once more, wrapping his arms around Virtue's neck. It's too much. It's all too much. Everything he's learned tonight – the truth – and now this... He curses and cries out in a choked wail that's muffled by Virtue's thick mane. It soaks up the sound along with his tears. He can feel the stallion's skin juddering beneath him, taut with pain.

He can't let Virtue suffer.

Arthur pulls away slowly, stroking one hand down the white stripe that mark's Virtues broad, handsome face. He cups his hand over velvety nostrils and feels the hot, shivery breath on his palm. Letting go and standing is hell, but it must be done. He turns, swipes quickly at his eyes and then bends to pick up his sword from where it lay discarded.

All the while, the great bay stallion stares at him, eyes wide, white-rimmed and rolling, but not struggling any more.

“Arthur, wait,” Merlin calls out from somewhere behind him.

But Arthur doesn't have time; he can't put this off.

“No, Arthur, wait.” Merlin's hand comes around Arthur's sword arm, dragging it down and back from where he's already started to raise it. “You don't need to do this!”

He spins around, shoving Merlin roughly and shaking him off. “I do, Merlin. He's suffering. His leg's broken. There's nothing to be done but this.” The sword goes up again.

“No, Arthur, just wait. Please,” Merlin says and there's something so sure and so full of promise, that Arthur falters. 

Merlin must see that he's got a moment's reprieve because he darts past Arthur and falls to his knees so quickly they skid through the leaves and loam as he shuffles next to an equine leg that is clearly hanging at an unnatural angle mid-canon. It's so terribly split that bone has pierced skin and blood stains the stallion's snowy fetlock.

Arthur shakes his head. “Merlin, no.” His fingers go tight on his sword again, resolve renewing itself.

And then Merlin places his hands on either side of the break, curling them loosely around fetlock and hock. He bends his head and then Merlin starts speaking words that Arthur can't hear. Soon, a warm, golden glow suffuses Virtue's leg and cascades around Merlin's hands. Merlin's voice goes louder and louder, still unintelligible, and then his head snaps up, craning his neck back so that he's staring upward toward the stars.

His eyes... are golden. Like molten brass being poured at the forge but brighter and more brilliant than any light or fire Arthur's ever seen.

He speaks more of those strange, guttural words; like he's speaking in tongues. And then finally, his voice fades to softness, and so does the light and his eyes are blue once more. They look over to Arthur, staring at him with something he can't name.

Arthur doesn’t want to look away, but he needs to know what this all means. So, he lets Merlin's gaze drop and he studies Virtue's leg and... it's whole once more.

The blood is dried and flaking away; there's no sign of any wound or split except a faint white line that traces across the stallion's ebon shank. He looks over the rest of the horse’s dark, dappled body and finds that Virtue is staring back at Merlin. There's no sign of pain, the fear is gone from his eyes; in fact, his expression is docile, and his ears droop lazily.

Stepping closer, Arthur reaches out to cup Virtue's jaw and the curve of his cheek. The stallion merely swings his large head into him and stretches out to whuffle at Arthur's shirt, like he's searching for treats. Finding nothing, he snorts noisily and wetly and then rocks up to gather his legs beneath him once more. This time he lurches to his feet with almost no effort and Arthur steps back, breath caught in his throat while Virtue settles weight onto that back leg. The horse looks weirdly puzzled for a moment, ears flicking back and forth as he cranes his neck around to look at his own leg. But only a few seconds later, the curiosity is gone, and he gives a shake of his coat to dislodge clinging debris and then steps past Arthur and walks over to where Patience is still standing.

“You have magic,” he says, afraid to look over at Merlin where he's still on the ground.

“Yes, I do,” Merlin confirms, as if it wasn't obvious.

“And yet your father assured mine that no one in the party coming to Camelot for the treaty talks used magic.” He turns around then.

Merlin still looks like the same man he met a few weeks ago. Nothing's changed about him; and that feels strange somehow.

“Well,” Merlin shrugs, “no one my father's staff or among the knights or anyone else who accompanied us does. It's a bit of clever wording, to be honest,” he explains sheepishly, scratching at his chin. “If you read my father's missive, it promises that no one in the King and Prince's retinue will be possessed of magic. But it says nothing about the King or Prince themselves. And obviously it couldn't exclude my father, since he's a Dragonlord. Which your father knows already.”

“Is that what you are?” Arthur asks because he knows so little of the subject.

“No,” Merlin shakes his head, but the motion changes halfway and becomes another half-shoulder shrug. “Not yet. The powers of a Dragonlord pass from father to son upon death. So, he is the Dragonlord, though I will be one someday. I just have magic. Well, not 'just'. Quite a bit, actually.” He looks slightly abashed. “I was born with it.”

“Oh.” He remembers their conversation on the ride back to the castle after their hunt. (Was that only Merlin’s second day in Camelot? It feels like Arthur's known him an age). He'd talked of the difficulties of being born with magic and thinking back now, Arthur can see how he'd been cagey in his explanation.

This would be one of those things that Uther would want to know; the most important thing. This is something that would bring the peace negotiations to a grinding halt; maybe more so than the potential treachery of a participating king, or whoever is conspiring this distraction with the mercenaries.

All that Arthur need do is ride back to Camelot and tell his father.

Merlin seems to realize where Arthur's thoughts are at, because his expression is still guarded: eyes narrow, teeth pressing slightly into a lower lip.

“I thought... I thought i was getting to know you,” Arthur says and can't look Merlin in the eyes any longer. He drops his chin, studying his boots and the tip of his sword where it's buried in the leaves. The forest smells of petrichor and the night breeze rustles all the faintly budding leaves into a gentle susurrus.

“I'm no different than I was before, Arthur.” He must stand, then, because Arthur hears movement and then footsteps, and the next words Merlin speaks are much closer. “You _were_ getting to know me,” he implores. “And I don't want this to change that. I thought we were becoming...” he hesitates a moment, “friends.”

“We were,” Arthur agrees, but he doesn't know where to go from there. He turns away, and stalks over to his horse – who is placidly nibbling at the few shoots of grass that make their way through the heavy leaf-litter. “We should go back now.”

Behind him, he hears Merlin's heavy sigh, but he stays silent as he goes to retrieve Patience.


	10. Chapter 10

Walking single file, Merlin following silently behind, they guide the horses out of the trees and back onto the goat path before remounting. Arthur's surprised when Merlin urges the mare past him, but then he's whispering out another string of those odd, archaic words. A ball of light – blue-white and swirling – forms around his fingers, lighting the way ahead. He makes a motion that sends the whirling orb hovering just above their heads, and it continues to stay with them as they go.

“That's how you found your way before,” Arthur remarks.

“Yes. And how I summoned Kilgharrah. As I'm not yet a Dragonlord, I can't call him in his language like my father does.”

It feels dangerous to fall back into this easy conversation and familiar back and forth; but, Arthur's weary and heartsore and strung-out. He's got so many warring things fighting for attention in his mind that he welcomes the distraction of idle chatter.

“So how did he know to find you then? The light doesn't call him?”

Merlin shakes his head. “Not exactly. It’s more that it signals him. Before we left Camelot, I spoke with my father and he agreed that he'd summon Kilgharrah and tell him where we were riding and to look for my sign. I merely send the orb of light high into the air for him to see.”

One part of that sentence captures Arthur's attention above the rest. “Your father summoned Kilgharrah in Camelot?” That's outrageous to think he'd do something so foolhardy!

Again, that negative side-to-side sweep of his head. “No. He'd have slipped out of the city and found a clearing or someplace out of sight of the castle and not too close to any village to call Kilgharrah to him. He knows the area fairly well, so I'm sure he's familiar with a safe place to do so.”

“Ahh, that makes sense.” He wonders if Uther has guards posted, keeping an eye on Balinor's comings and goings and if this night's activity will cause any sort of trouble. But they're miles and miles away from Camelot and he can't worry about that now. He has plenty of his own worries to deal with; mercenaries to route, and a plot to uncover and after all that is done... he's got a plethora of things to think about. The man riding next to him being one – or many – of those things.

Another thought occurs to Arthur, though he hesitates in asking; unsure exactly how to word it. “Merlin, you regarding your... magic.” It feels odd to say the word, and he stumbles over it. “What exactly,” he makes a rather helpless gesture with one hand that only succeeds in jostling his reins. “I mean tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Merlin says. “Right.” He draws back his own reins and brings his mare to a halt.

Arthur stops beside him, positions his mount in parallel, so they can talk directly. He indicates Merlin should continue.

“Well, I can definitely assist in the battle. I mean, my knights are actually accustomed to fighting with the aid of those with magic.”

And that makes so much sense to Arthur; it explains why there were times when Percival or Gwaine or Lancelot has taken a strange approach in their sparring or seemed to hesitate and look to Merlin for instruction.

“Of course,” Arthur nods, assured, like he's not just seeing these pieces come together in his mind.

“And I am more than capable of defending myself,” Merlin hurries to say. “During the times we've sparred on the practice field you seemed quite disappointed that I am not...” He flips his arms, gesturing to himself with a wordless grumble.

It's a nonsense bit of flailing, but it's so clearly read and despite himself, Arthur has to laugh softly.

“You know; like any of my knights. All fit and skilled at all kinds of weaponry. But I've never needed to be.” He looks away then, turning his eyes up towards the sky.

Arthur thinks he not really looking at anything in particular but doesn't quite feel comfortable looking him straight on as he explains further.

“I mean I have magic strong enough to kill if that's what you're asking. There is no question about that. I mean, I'm not fond of having to do so, of course, but I will defend myself and my people to the best of my ability.”

Arthur can respect that. Much as he loves a good brawl or the frenzy of battle and the glory of combat sometimes, he doesn't relish killing. The fewer casualties he can leave behind after routing an opponent makes the victory all the stronger.

“So, with you and the dragon, we'll be well sorted regardless of the numbers, won't we?”

Merlin gives a nod. “Yes, and I'm confident I'll be able to draw the men out. Even without Kilgharrah, we can likely manage. Though, I'll not object to the dragon's aid.”

“When we were strategizing earlier your men knew this, didn't they?”

Merlin jerks his chin in a culpable nod.

Sighing again, Arthur scrubs a gloved hand over his face. “I understand your need for secrecy. I do, Merlin. But this could have put me or my men in harm's way. I wish–” He bites off the end of that thought, hating the accusation in his own voice.

“I wouldn't have let that happen, Arthur,” Merlin says hurriedly to reassure him. “Trust me. I feel as if we both have the same bond with our knights. The ones who travel with us, in particular. Lancelot is one of my oldest friends. We met when we were boys. And Percival has been at my side for a dozen years, at least. Gwaine came along at nearly the same time and seemed to fit right in with us.” He snickers. “Although sometimes he gets me into more trouble than I think he's worth.”

Arthur can commiserate and he dredges up a curve to one side of his mouth. “Leon has been my companion from boyhood. He’s a few years older so I always looked up to him. And he tolerated an annoying princeling following at his heels. Elyan was rewarded with a Knighthood, despite my father's protests, after he saved the life of my mother. I've known him for some time, being Gwen's brother, of course, and the son of our local blacksmith. But in his years since joining my ranks, he's become one of my most loyal friends.”

Merlin's got a wary frown on his face, and Arthur wonders if he's going to ask after the story of his mother. His heart's still tender and he doesn't really want to discuss it.

Instead Merlin poses the question. “Why wouldn't your father want him to be a knight? He's brilliant.”

“Because he's not a noble,” Arthur replies, puzzled. He'd thought that was made obvious when he explained that Elyan was the son of a blacksmith.

Merlin rocks back slightly his saddle. “Huh? So, all of your nights are the sons of lords and nobility?”

Arthur nods. “Apart from Elyan, yes. His exception made for quite the scandal, in fact. But my mother insisted, and it was well-deserved, so my father couldn't deny it. Apparently, there's some old stipulation in the laws that allows the noble birth requirement to be overlooked, as a reward for a heroic or noble act in benefit of the kingdom. Though, I've been cautioned that I'm never to suggest it happen again.” He twists his mouth up to the side as Merlin gives an equally wry snort. “I take it your men are not of nobility?”

“No,” Merlin starts to shake his head, but aborts the maneuver. “Well, technically, Gwaine is, but don't tell him I told you. He likes to keep that a secret. He's not very fond of nobles as his relations never treated him well, and he left home young as a result. But Percival came from a small town in Essetir that was razed by Cenred's army when he was a boy and he lost his entire family. He showed up with a small band of survivors one day. Lancelot came from a neighboring village and could've moved on after my father's routed Cenred but chose to seek out his place in the world at my side, and to prove himself honorable. Never has there been a man more born to be a knight.” Merlin says it with a fond grin that’s tinged by bluish light. “There there's a reason those three are the best of Essetir.”

“Speaking of the men,” Arthur changes the subject back to the topic of tomorrow's engagement. “I'd like to let Leon and Elyan in on the truth.”

Merlin pauses only a few seconds before responding with a nod of agreement. “Yes, that would be better for everything. The arrival of the dragon and whatever magic I may do shouldn't come as too much of a surprise.”

“Good, I'm glad you agree. Thank you.” After Merlin acknowledges his thanks with quick bob of his head, Arthur says, “C'mon.” He taps his heels into Virtue's barrel. “We should get back. It's late and I'd like to try to get a few hours of sleep before the dawn.”

“Yes, we should.” Merlin agrees as he guides his mare into pace with Arthur's stallion. “Though I don't relish the thought of waking with the sun,” he adds with a groan. “That's much too early.”

They ride on in silence nearly the whole of the way back, and it isn’t until they’re nearing the point where they’ll turn off the goat path and into the trees that Merlin asks softly, “Arthur, can you forgive me, do you think?” The words are barely audible over the noises of hooves crunching through leaf litter and tack jingling.

Arthur thinks on that a while, holding tree branches out of the way so they don’t swing back and slap at Merlin or his mare, and leading them carefully around areas that look too uncertain for the horse’s footing. Finally, he sighs. “I think I already have, Merlin.”

Closing in on the camp, they decide to lead their horses the last quarter mile, to avoid disturbing the others. However, after they untack and picket the animals, Arthur's not entirely too surprised to return to the fire and find everyone awake.

“Found him, did you?” Gwaine says right after biting into an apple, spraying bits of spittle and apple with the words.

Lancelot appears slightly more reserved. “Is everything all right, Merlin?” he asks cautiously. His eyes flick back and forth between them.

“It is,' Merlin tells them. “It's fine. Nothing to worry about.”

“So, we'll be facing these mercenaries with a dragon on our side?”

Arthur jerks his head around. It's Elyan who said that. “How did...”

Thumbs and fingers point towards Gwaine, who lifts his half-chewed apple in a salute.

“Someone let it slip,” Percival says wryly.

“To be fair,” Gwaine says, once he's chewed his mouthful and swallowed, “I was just trying to stop these two from following after you both.” He gestures to Elyan and Leon. “Didn't think they needed to be running into big and scaly without forewarning.”

“And you know of the magic as well?” Merlin asks.

Leon nods.

“We thought it best to explain everything, so there are no surprises tomorrow.”

“Good,” Arthur says, clapping Merlin on the shoulder. “That's what we agreed as well. I'm glad we don't have to spend the rest of the night discussing it.” He gives Merlin a little shove forward. “Now, let's all try to get a few more hours of sleep before sun-up.”

They settle in bedrolls and under cloaks. Arthur pulls his own heavy cloak over his chest and then he realizes the fire is still crackling merrily. The light and the noise will certainly keep him awake. He sits up with a groan. Hours at end in the saddle and sleeping on the ground are taking their toll.

Lifting his head from his makeshift pallet, Merlin looks over at him, asking, “What is it?”

“The fire needs banking.”

Merlin smiles, small but pleased. “I've got this.” He waves a hand and mutters a word in that unfamiliar language. His eyes flash, bright enough to illuminate his face in the dark, casting deep shadows beneath the elegantly sloping bones of his cheeks. Caught up by staring at him, Arthur almost misses seeing the fire diminish, burning lower and lower until only red glowing coals remain. It's still unnerving seeing magic happen so openly in front of him, but he returns Merlin's smile with a nod of gratitude and a whispered, “Thank you. Good night, Merlin.”

“Good night, Arthur,” Merlin replies, and though the loss of illumination makes it difficult to see, Arthur can tell Merlin is still grinning at him as he lays his head back down.

~~~~~~>*@*<~~~~~~

Despite an interrupted night's sleep, Arthur is awake only a bit later than the dawn. As the sun rises higher, spilling over treetops, it begins to rouse the men as well.

Merlin insists on a hearty meal, to “Set them right for the day's excitement,” as he puts it. He and Percival share those duties while Arthur sits with the others – sharpening blades or polishing armor – and watches while Lancelot sketches the ruins of the Baybridge fort in the dirt with a stick.

It's not long before Merlin joins them, handing over bowls of spiced and fragrant morning porridge, quail eggs roasted in their shells in the coals (and Arthur isn't going to question where Merlin got them) and slices of crusty bread. While they eat, Merlin looks over the crudely drawn map as well and makes several suggestions on where the men should position themselves. Though there are a few minor quibbles – mostly between Leon and Gwaine regarding the positioning of those with crossbows – they agree upon a strategy with remarkable ease.

“We'll route them, for sure.”

Arthur feels unusually confident despite knowing he's going into an unknown type of battle. His men are confident, cocksure and eager for the fight. He's both apprehensive and a little bit thrilled at the idea of having both a dragon and magic on his side. There's something about it that feels empowering. But also... right? Like it's something he's missed his whole life.

Of course, thinking of what his life might've been like with magic always in it threatens to lead his thoughts down the path towards his father's omissions and his mother's consequences and all the things he learned the night before; and that way just leads to acid bile lurching in his stomach and an aching head. He can't let those concerns distract him. Not now.

When they break camp and begin the ride to Baybridge, Arthur trails at the back of their formation. Merlin's men know the area and he trusts they'll get them safely there. While there's a bit of light chatter and occasional banter early on, once Lancelot reports that they're only a few miles out, silence falls. They ride a bit further, and then dismount and secure the horses for a final approach on foot. They do a quick bit of scouting, marking the few guards that are visible among the crumbling walls of stone. The bulk of them must be below, in the cellars and tunnels below the ruins.

Merlin and Arthur split off from the others, so that Merlin can call Kilgharrah and use his magic to drive the men from the tunnels beneath the crumbling remains of the fortress. He'd offered to do it alone, but Arthur couldn't bring himself to agree. He doesn't doubt that Merlin can handle himself, but he doesn't care for the idea of anyone being alone, so far from the others. The knights circle around the outskirts of the village, positioning themselves to be ready for the bandits that attempt to flee. They'll all regroup after, to make a final search of the tunnels.

Baybridge looks like it must've been a quaint little village at some point; Arthur tries to see it as it should be, looking beyond the burned homes and trampled gardens and decaying livestock. Merlin's expression is haunted, his face pale – but his mouth is set in a firm grimace and his eyes are narrowed with focus.

“There were families,” he says softly. “A miller and his two sons. A milkmaid and her sisters; they had a friendly cat.”

“They'll pay for it, Merlin.”

He nods, resolved. “I'll summon Kilgharrah.” He reaches a hand in the air and speaks that magical language. Arthur doesn't think he'll ever stop being awed by the way those eyes gather with halcyon light. Instead of the ball of light Arthur expects, little flits of flame – like embers drifting upward from a fire – come together to form a cat-sized figure of a dragon. Like a living being of sparks, it hovers – flickering wings flapping – above Merlin's fingertips. The dragon launches upward, trailing a shimmering line of iridescence in its wake. It stops high in the sky above them, circles there a moment and then explodes into a glittering array of colorful sparkles that slowly rain down and fizzle out.

“That was amazing,” Arthur can't help but breath out. He feels a bit boyish at being so delighted and enthused over every little magical thing that Merlin does, but that was quite spectacular. He nudges Merlin's shoulder, keeping his voice low. “You know, I can think of a lot of children in Camelot's lower town who would love to see such tricks.”

Merlin sniffs, likely at Arthur's use of the word 'tricks', but then he gives a lopsided grin. “Yeah. The little ones do enjoy it. I do something similar on the solstice. There's a festival in Essetir, we invite all the villagers and townsfolk, and all of us with magic do these kinds of tricks and displays for the children.”

Arthur starts to say something else when he notices that Merlin's gaze is drawn to the sky. He looks up as well, and doesn't see anything yet, but he trusts that Merlin would know if the dragon is near.

“It's time,” Merlin says, voice gone cold. That warmth when talking of village children has iced over.

They hurry forward, keeping low and rushing from clumps of brush to smashed carts to scorched stones and other sources of cover. Arthur points to the remains of a stacked line of limestone and mimes hurrying there and ducking behind it. Merlin nods, in easy agreement of his plan. At Arthur's signal, they scramble to where the stone fence has been breached and slip through the gap, dropping down low behind it.

“The first guard,” Arthur hisses out, into Merlin's ear. He points to himself to let Merlin know he'll take care of dispatching the man. Merlin agrees with a silent nod.

It's obvious these men aren't expecting attack. Those on watch are indolent. The closest man – Arthur's target – is leaning against a worn pillar, his fingers laced across his ample belly and his sword propped next to him. Arthur takes one silent step, then another, placing his feet with the utmost care, and then he reaches within an arm's length and taps the drowsing man on the shoulder.

The bandit startles with an intake of breath, and Arthur smashes him on the side of the head with the hilt of his sword before he can exhale. He catches the man’s body as it tumbles, preparing to ease it quietly to the ground. To his surprise, the body suddenly becomes almost weightless. Braced as he is for lowering it, he nearly over-corrects into pushing the dead-weight away, but manages to keep hold. He looks over to Merlin, who's got a sheepish grin on his face even as his eyes glow and his hand is extended outward with the force of the spell.

Arthur rolls his eyes, but he can't help smirking back. It's easy, after that, to drag the body out of sight behind the wall.

“Shall I?” he asks quietly, reaching for the knife in his belt. He doesn’t know how Merlin might feel about killing a man so directly.

“No,” Merlin shakes his head. “We’ll need at least one alive, to question,” he hisses out. “But we don’t want him waking up at an inopportune time.” He mutters something and his eyes flash. “A sleeping spell,” he explains to Arthur’s raised brows.

“Right, very good. And good thinking.” Eager as he is for blood after what these men have done to two innocent towns now, Arthur’s glad one of them is keeping his head. “Now for the rest of them.” Arthur holds up two fingers, indicating the second of the four guards. The bandit's on watch have positioned themselves poorly, out of each other's eyeline – so it's not much trouble to dispatch those remaining in a similar fashion to the first, although these get the knife afterward.

Merlin joins him then, and keeps going past him, giving a wave for Arthur to follow. He leads them further towards what remains of the fortress. The ancient structure is little more than a ramshackle collection of a few half-standing corridors and corners of rooms, and the roof is long-since collapsed to expose what little remains to the elements. Where grass and weeds and ivy haven’t overgrown, it’s possible to make out the deep indents in the earth and the rotted remnants of wood that mark the footprint of the keep’s first floor.

Stopping at another of those half-tumbled walls a few dozen yards away Merlin drops to a knee once again. From the angled shape and distance from the keep, this one was likely once part of a redoubt or perhaps a small barbican. “This is probably close enough.” He points to the only section of the ancient edifice that might still, generously, be called standing; a few rooms – although they’ve no ceilings or doors or even full walls – and a half-staircase that drops off after climbing only a dozen feet in the air.

“The entrance to the lower level, with the storerooms and larder and dungeon, is behind the fallen stairs.”

Arthur nods, sword at the ready and eyes constantly scanning for movement. It isn’t movement that catches his attention though, but sound instead.

A voice echoes through the ruins. It’s muffled and hollow-sounding, coming from underground, but clear enough that Arthur can make out a few distinct words. It’s something to do with the guards.

“Now would be a good time for that distraction, Merlin. Whatever you're going to do to bring these bastards out of hiding.”

Merlin nods and closes his eyes a moment. Then he starts to whisper in the low guttural tone, and his eyes open wide and he splays both hands, as if he's pushing something into the air. Coils of smoke start gathering from nothingness in front of him and being trailing deliberately around corners and seeping through gaps in the rock. They thicken as they go, black and oily, like the heavy smog that hovers over a coalmaker’s hut. He guides the eerily snake-like tendrils deep into the ruins and around the fallen stairs to the basement’s entrance.

It isn't long before Arthur hears coughing and shouts of alarm and a warning of, ‘Fire!’. All at once men start stumbling and pushing clumsily past each other out into foggy daylight.

“That's good, Merlin,” he enthuses, shaking Merlin's shoulder.

Squeezing his fingers into fists, the smoke finally stops flowing and Merlin exhales a sharp gasp and then slumps heavily.

“Are you all right?” Arthur asks urgently. The hand that was gripping excitedly slides from Merlin's shoulder to the back of his neck, cupping his head.

“I'll be fine,” Merlin says, though his voice is feeble and he's panting. “It just... takes a lot out of me. I just need a few moments to…catch my breath.”

“Well good.” Arthur's tone shifts to one of wry amusement. “Because I think we're going to need you on your feet in a...”

A bandit charges around the wall they're hunkered behind; he's staggering, hacking wetly and waving away clinging smoke. When he spots Merlin and Arthur he startles, jerking to a halt. It takes him a long moment to recognize that they aren't his comrades. Before he can fumble for his sword, Arthur's up and leaping the broken shelf of stone and letting out a piercing cry of, “Attack! For Camelot! For Essetir!”

He charges the man. He knows that Leon and the others are waiting for his signal and he hopes that they hear him. Although, it's likely the magically conjured smoke clued them in to be ready!

More men stumble into the open, confused but quick to draw weapons. He cuts the first man down even before the man's blade clears its’ scabbard, but more approach.

He's got two on him now; one swinging a starred mace and the other a sword. He ducks the former and parries the latter and manages to dispatch both in a few easy swings. They're still disoriented and struggling to breath. Another pair take their place and one of them is nearly retching from the smoke; it's little work to jab the point of his blade through that one’s ribs. From appearances – some of the men have pulled on bits of armor, but many are without any protection or weapons to speak of – they caught the mercenaries lounging, their attack completely unexpected. The second man offers a bit more of a challenge and he’s forced to dance away to avoid his overhand of a hammer swing, as well as the body of the coughing man as it collapses.

Though he's occupied, Arthur spots a man wielding what looks like an ugly cudgel who rushes up from a different direction. He looks past where Arthur's engaged with his fellow and spots what must appear to be an unarmed man crouched behind the crumbling wall. It's almost instinct to kick out at his opponent – catching him in the knee, which buckles his leg – and then spin to intercept the bandit approaching Merlin.

He's got his sword mid-swing and is shouting Merlin's name but is too late.

Because Merlin's already got his hand pushing out and his eyes afire, and the cudgel-wielding man is flung backwards. He lands with a sickening thump, his head striking stone.

There are more shouts of alarm and the warning of “Sorcerer!” carries through emptying ruins. 

From other directions, Arthur can hear sounds of blades clashing and more of the coughing and cursing and he knows the rest of the knights have closed in to circle and surround the mercenaries, seeking to cut-off their escape.

He's just about to ask Merlin where Kilgharrah is when there's an earth-shaking roar from high above. He sees – through the dissipating smoke – the dragon swoop down. Massive fore claws extended, he dives for the ones that are running through barren village, attempting to flee from the battle. With no homes or structures still standing that they can shelter in, they're easy pickings for the dragon's talons or his wicked bursts of exhaled fire.

Another bandit – shirtless and carrying a hand scythe – seems to think Merlin is to blame for the dragon, and rushes towards him with an angry, wordless yell.

The tip of a long sinuous tail cracks out like a whip, striking the yeller across the chest. His cry is cut off by a sharp snap and then a terrible gurgle, and he’s dragged along several feet, impaled by the spikes on the dragon’s tail, until Kilgharrah shakes him off and flapping wings carrying him back up into the air.

Arthur loses track of Kilgharrah then – though he can probably track the dragon's path by the screams – and focuses on the remaining enemies that still seek to fight. It surprises Arthur just how many of them approach, opting for combat instead of escape. It seems that no matter how fast he dispatches one, another is there to take his place.

The villagers of Whitelake had thought there were as many as two dozen mercenaries, but if feels like there are twice that number. He's not concerned over their chances of success – they've a sorcerer and a dragon on their side, to say nothing of highly skilled knights – but he does worry over how long the battle could take, and the chance of losing track of whose left. He meant it when he told Miss Addy and Beren that he was going to make all of them pay for what they did. Seeing the devastation of Baybridge has only doubled his resolve.

Finally, though, the near constant stream of adversaries seems to ebb, and those that remain appear to be opting to attempt to flee. From the gouts of flame that stream down to engulf random runners, and the occasional distant sounds of gleeful shouts and clashing weapons, none are succeeding. Neither the dragon or the knights are letting that happen.


	11. Chapter 11

Arthur lets his sword-arm droop – it aches, and it feels like the sword has doubled in weight – and he's panting.

The battle is drawing to an end. No new opponent has risen to meet him for many minutes, and he’s surrounded by dead or dying men. They're nearly done with their task – the grisliest part of it, at least – though they still need to uncover just who is responsible for this little uprising and the attempted sabotage of the treaty.

He approaches Merlin, somewhat surprised to see he's still kneeling next to the tumbled down wall. Apparently fending off his attackers didn't even require him to get to his feet. Chuckling, he shakes his head. “I'm impressed.” He extends a hand to help him up. “Shall we?”

“Yes, I think that's–” Merlin breaks off, eyes widening. “Arthur!”

Arthur's a step ahead of Merlin's warning. He's caught the movement in the corner of his eye and turns as a bandit lurches up from where he'd apparently used the ramshackle wall to hide his approach. He doesn't even think about how it's probably a futile gesture, he just dives towards Merlin and tackles him flat to the ground, out of reach of the man's clumsy lunge. Merlin's already got a hand splayed up, shoving the mercenary with his magic hard into a wall. The man crumples and doesn't move except to flop, lifeless, to the earth.

Heart thumping and trying to breathe again, Arthur looks down at Merlin, who's lying prone and caged beneath Arthur's limbs, and offers a sheepish grin. “Sorry, I suppose that wasn't necessary.”

Merlin – equally breathless – returns the grin. “No, but I appreciate the effort.”

And something in his smile causes Arthur's stomach to flip in an entirely different way.

“Thank you, Arthur.” Merlin's cheeks and the tips of his ears go pink for no reason Arthur can fathom.

“It was... nothing,” Arthur says thickly, like his tongue has grown heavy while the words stick to it. “I just...”

“Well, it’s appreciated.”

They both go silent, still staring at one another.

Before Arthur can start to pull away, to suggest they get off the ground, Merlin darts his head upward and catches Arthur’s lips with his.

Arthur jerks back, startled. And it isn't until he's staring again at Merlin, whose expression is rapidly transforming from eager to guilt-stricken, that he realizes that Merlin just kissed him!

“Sorry,” Merlin blurts out. “I didn't mean...”

“No!” Arthur says, as confused as he's ever been. “I mean, not no. I mean, don't apologize. It startled me, that's all.”

Merlin's still frowning. “I should've asked if it would be welcome. I shouldn't have just...”

“No,” Arthur repeats. He realizes even as he says it, “I'm glad you did.”

Like storm clouds breaking way for blue skies, so many things over the last days and weeks in Merlin’s company suddenly become clear for Arthur. The easy way that he and Merlin have fallen into friendship, not to mention the strange pangs he's been feeling whenever Merlin's attention is taken by someone else or – especially – the way his stomach jumps and his heart trips clumsily whenever Merlin's attention _is_ focused on him and he's too close and too charming and too... everything.

He smiles then, gentle and perhaps a little wondrous, and asks haltingly, “Would it be all right if I...” he can't quite get the words out, but he hopes the way that his gaze flicks from Merlin's eyes to his lips and back up finishes the question for him.

Although Merlin's own eyes go wide, he exhales a soft, “Yes.”

Arthur lowers his head slowly, and he thinks he should probably close his eyes, but the way Merlin is staring at him – amazed and disbelieving all at once – is intoxicating and he can't help but lose himself in the expanding ink-dark pupils and the thinning rings of stormwater blue. He only closes them once Merlin's eyelids flutter shut and then their lips touch, soft and tentative. But there's no mistaking the intent.

Merlin stays still and quiescent at first, kissing him back lightly and gently, letting Arthur get the feel of it. It’s not long before Arthur finds the right angle, fitting their lips in a way that feels so good, and so right. Merlin’s mouth is soft against his, pliant, and he deepens the kiss, daring to sweep this tip of his tongue over Merlin’s plump bottom lip.

There’s a little gust as Merlin inhales, and then he lets out a low, breathy noise – almost a moan – and his tongue darts out to tease at Arthur’s. It’s instinct to open to it, to suck it in and stroke it with his own.

He’s the one groaning then, and he can feel a surge of something hot pulse through the whole of his body, leaving a tingling in its wake. Being in battle sometimes gets the blood up, and he knows others who talk of needing a drink or a rut afterwards, though he’s never been one to experience such things; but all it takes is a few minutes of the supple, plush warmth of Merlin's lips on his and he's fully hard in his trousers.

He draws away, finally, gasping.

This time when Merlin looks up at him, low-lidded and sloe-eyed, there's an indolent smirk playing at those puffy, pinked, kiss-damp lips.

“I… uh, suspect we should talk about this,” Arthur says, aware he's probably also grinning rather dumbly. He's flush and there's a strange combination of arousal and amusement thrumming beneath his skin.

“But not now,” Merlin says, equally unable to control his faintly befuddled but pleased expression.

“Right,” Arthur agrees. “Not now.” Still, it takes him a moment to move and he lets out another gasp, which turns to a whine, as he pulls away. Even the barest friction between their bodies is all kinds of pleasurable and torturous.

Once he finds his feet, he offers a hand and as he helps Merlin to stand, he can’t help but notice that he’s moving somewhat awkwardly. Another of those rushes of warmth blooms in his cheeks – he must be red as his cloak at this point – when the meaning behind Merlin’s odd stance comes to him. He very pointedly looks away, clearing his throat. “Um, right. Yes. We should find the others.”

“Right,” Merlin concurs, trying to bring his expression under some semblance of control. “Let’s go.” He starts to stride away, until Arthur catches him by the arm.

“Uh, they’re over that way, Merlin.” Arthur points opposite of the direction Merlin’s going.

“Oh, uh, right.” Merlin’s still walking with a bit of a hitch in his gait as he begins going in the other direction.

It’s fortunate that it takes them a few minutes to track down the first knight, because it gives Arthur time to collect himself and for other… problems to resolve themselves. He only hopes that any lingering blush or redness around his mouth is overlooked as the dishevelment of combat.

A quick, sideward glance at Merlin shows he’s looking much calmer and more respectable than Arthur feels. Although, when he happens to catch Arthur’s eye, he ducks his head, smiling to himself in an utterly blatant way.

They come across Leon first. Like Arthur had been, he’s ringed by a handful of dead combatants and he’s kneeling next to one, a dripping knife in his hand and a fresh throat gaping open beneath it; a mercy killing.

“Arthur,” he says, looking relieved. “Merlin. Good to see you both.”

“Leon,” Arthur nods. “Any trouble here?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.” He levers himself up using his sword like a staff. “Any word from the others?”

“Not yet,” Merlin tells him. “Though we’ve just started looking. I imagine if everyone had to deal with a similar number of bandits, they’re likely doing the same as you.” He indicates the dead man.

A sound breaks into the conversation and it takes Arthur a moment to place it. His first thought is of the slaps of banners in the wind, and he starts to wonder who might be carrying a battle standard out here. Then he recognizes that it’s the flap of leathery wings and he looks up to see Kilgharrah approaching.

The dragon alights with surprising grace, settling down in the remnants of a crop field put to the torch some time ago. He looks even bigger in the daylight and the spread of those wings as he stretches them out before tucking them at his sides might be longer than a jousting pitch. Arthur looks over to Leon, to see his reaction at being this close to a dragon.

He suspects his own face looked equally nonplussed upon seeing one for the first time. “He’s bigger than you expected, isn’t he?” Arthur whispers in an aside.

Jaw hanging slightly open, Leon turns to him and gives a slow, definitive nod. “Percival and Gwaine said, but I didn’t… well, I didn’t believe them.”

Merlin ignores them both, but Arthur’s fairly sure he can see amusement pulling at his cheeks.

“Kilgharrah,” Merlin says, inclining his head in greeting.

“Merlin,” Kilgharrah’s wagon-sized head bows as well.

“Thank you for the help. We’d been warned of only half that amount of men, so your arrival was rather timely.”

“Yes,” Arthur adds, not wanting to appear rude or ungrateful, especially now that he’s seen what the dragon can do. “We’re grateful for the assistance, Kilgharrah.”

“It was very little trouble, young Pendragon.” A scaly lip peels away from very long, wicked teeth in something resembling a grin. “It was rather enjoyable, in fact.”

Beside him, Leon shuffles back a step.

“Have you seen the others?” Merlin asks. “Gwaine, Elyan and the rest?”

Kilgharrah nods again. “Yes. Your men are all well, young warlock. Have no fear. I saw each of them in my final pass over the surrounding lands. They should be here soon.”

Arthur sighs, relief taking some of the tension out of his shoulders. “Did any escape? Do you know?”

“None that I saw, young Pendragon.” Kilgharrah lifts a foreleg, like he’s attempting a shrug. “But, they scattered in many directions, so it’s possible one or two might’ve gotten past.”

“There’s nothing to be done for it now. We’ve still got at least one alive anyway, to question.”

“Yes,” Merlin agrees. “And, we should search the tunnels. To see if any are left down there and to see if we can find any evidence of who’s paying them.”

“Arthur!”

“Merlin!”

The calls come at almost the same moment, Gwaine and Elyan coming through the nearby trees, and Lancelot and Percival from around the shell of a burned barn. Gwaine’s limping slightly, an arm over Elyan’s shoulder, but is laughing and hurries to assure Merlin that he’s fine.

“Tripped over a stump, this one did,” Elyan explains, grinning.

“Stump was more of a challenge than any of these bastards,” Gwaine retorts.

Percival’s got a long but shallow slice down the length of a forearm. “It’s fine, Merlin.” He waves away Merlin’s offer of tending the wound. “Just a scratch.”

“You know,” Leon offers, shaking his head in amused admonishment, “that wouldn’t have happened if your gambeson had sleeves.”

“I’ve already told you, Leon, if they made one in my size I might consider –”

“Shite!” Elyan blurts, cutting him off. “That’s a dragon!”

It’s too much for Arthur – Elyan’s reaction, the whole of the battle, relief that everyone is hale and hearty, and especially trying _not_ to think on that moment with Merlin – he bursts out laughing. He counts it a good thing that no one looks at him like he’s got some mental affliction.

Elyan just ducks his head sheepishly, before he starts chuckling, and after that it becomes somewhat contagious.

Kilgharrah’s eyes narrow as the infectious laughter makes the rounds and leaves them all weak and breathless and holding their sides. Unimpressed, he snorts. “I will never understand you humans.”

“Sometimes we don’t understand each other,” Merlin tells him with a wink as the amusement dies down. “But you don’t need to put up with us any longer, Kilgharrah. We’ll manage from here.”

“Of that, I have no doubt,” Kilgharrah grumbles. “However, I shall wait here to hear what you uncover, and once you’ve made your decisions on where to go next. I’m sure your father would appreciate that information.”

“Right, of course.” He turns to the others and waves his arm. “Come on. Let’s go inspect those tunnels.”

The entrance to the lower level of the keep is empty and quiet. Arthur crouches next to the wide mouth of the stairs that lead downward.

“I don’t think anyone would’ve remained down there, do you?” He asks the question to Merlin, but a few others shake their heads as well.

“We saw that smoke,” Percival offers. “I can’t imagine anyone stayed down there through that.”

“I can check easily enough,” Merlin suggests.

Arthur shakes his head. “I’d rather be the first one down.”

Behind Arthur, Gwaine snorts. “He doesn’t mean he wants to go down there, Princess.”

Oh. He’s going to use magic. Arthur keeps forgetting about that. “Right,” he says self-consciously. “I forgot.”

Merlin bumps his elbow into Arthur’s ribs and shoots him a little grin. “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it.” He winks.

That damning heat starts to warm Arthur’s cheeks and he hopes the others don’t notice, or at least don’t ask why such an innocuous comment is making him blush.

Fortunately, they all seem too interested in watching Merlin as he uses his magic to notice Arthur’s discomfiture. Merlin holds out a hand, palm flat and facing up and as he speaks, another little glowing orb begins to form above it. This one is smaller, the size of an apple, and an eerie, opaque, greenish-white. A soft gasp catches Arthur’s ear and a quick, sideward glance shows that Leon is rapt. Of course, it’s the first time he or Elyan are seeing someone use magic and Arthur doesn’t blame the awe and wonder on their faces. Even the Essetir knights seem fascinated.

“This is a mage eye,” Merlin explains. “I can send it into the tunnels, and I can see what it sees.” He lifts the little ball, although it’s still hovering above his palm, and then he turns his hand and pushes it forward. With that little bit of momentum, the ‘eye’ is off, speeding into the darkness below. Merlin’s arm stays raised, and his hands and fingers move in subtle little motions – obviously guiding the orb in its’ search – and his eyes shine bright, swirling gold.

“Can that thing see in the dark?” Elyan ask, voice barely above a whisper.

“It can,” Merlin answers in a normal speaking volume. “And it’s fine to talk. This isn’t an easy spell, compared to many, but it’s not so challenging that I need to use all of my concentration.”

That gives Arthur pause. If something like this isn’t enough to require the whole of Merlin’s focus, what kind of magic might be? Just how powerful is Merlin?

He adds that to the growing list of things that need to be discussed.

“Anything yet?” Lancelot asks. Now that the visible part of the magic has ended, he and Percival and Gwaine sound much less impressed.

“Not yet. Several of the rooms are filled with goods. Food, clothing and the like. Although,” he pauses and makes several minute adjustments, fingers moving delicately. “Now, I think I’ve found a room that they might have been using to plan their attacks. There are maps and letters on a table.”

“Can you make them out?”

Merlin gives a curt shake of his head. “No, the eye doesn’t allow me to read text; the magic prevents it. I can see that there’s writing on a page but can’t make out the letters.”

“Really? Why is that?” Leon wonders.

“It’s an oddity of the spell.” Merlin shrugs and then aborts the motion halfway when it jostles the hand guiding the ‘eye’. “I suspect it was created with such limits to prevent sorcerers from using it to spy on one another’s work? I’ve always wanted to make some updates, to see if I could change that. But haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

And now Merlin’s talking of changing spells, like Arthur might rewrite a speech. He has no idea if that’s normal for a sorcerer. Something of his thoughts must be showing on his face because Lancelot catches his eye. He nods toward Merlin silently and then nods again, this time with a weighty significance as if to say ‘yes, he is that powerful.’

Arthur swallows hard. Everything he’s ever heard about magic has told him that all magic is evil, and the more powerful the magic, the more evil the user. And yet, everything he’s learned about Merlin over the past weeks tells him that Merlin is good, and kind and true-hearted. He’s starting to feel that pang in his chest again and it’s made doubly strong with the knowledge that he’s not only kissed that powerful sorcerer, but he hopes to do it again.

Fortunately, he’s saved from spiraling into those warring thoughts by Merlin himself.

“I’m finished. I expect there are more passages and hideaways that I didn’t immediately discover, but even if someone managed to survive down there, I expect they wouldn’t bother to trouble us.” Despite saying that, his eyes are still whirling molten gold and his hand is still extended and making those delicate motions.

Arthur’s about to ask what Merlin’s waiting for when the greenish orb comes speeding up from the depths and settles into position over Merlin’s outstretched palm once again. Suddenly, he makes a quick gesture, squeezing his hand into a fist, and the glowing ball disappears with a ‘thwup’.

There are gasps and awed sounds all around him, and Arthur knows his own mouth dropped open at the display. From the cheeky grin pushing divots into Merlin’s cheeks and wrinkling the corners of his eyes –

gone lake-water blue once more – he did that entirely to entertain them. Arthur can’t blame him. It looked impressive.

“If you’re done showing off,” Gwaine says smarmily, although he’s nudging at Merlin’s side and smirking, “let’s get down there. Shall we?”

“After you,” Merlin invites with a sweeping gesture.

Gwaine starts down but pauses before he’s even made it a full three steps. “Uh, Merlin, my friend. I don’t suppose you could shed a little light on this, could you? Someone’s earlier fun with magic smoke seems to have snuffed all the torches.”

Merlin clucks his tongue. “I don’t know, Gwaine. I wouldn’t want to show off…”

“C’mon, Merlin,” Gwaine pouts, sticking out a bottom lip. “Be a mate?”

“Fine,” Merlin relents; he clearly unable to keep the smile from slipping back into place. He summons another orb, this one larger and the same swirling bright blue-white that Arthur’s seen before. The first one precedes Gwaine into the darkness, illuminating it nicely, and then he seems to pull another and another and another from nothingness. He sets them floating above several heads.

“Yeah,” Gwaine mutters, continuing down the steps. “Not showing off at all.”

They follow him down single file and Merlin leads the way to the room he spoke of. Arthur sends Leon, Elyan and Lancelot to explore further, and puts Percival on guard at the doorway. He trusts Merlin’s word – and his magic – but he prefers to err on the side of caution.

Examining the maps prove that Merlin’s theory was correct. Arthur pushes an empty tankard and a half-polished buckler aside to unroll one fully. “Yes, this is Whitelake. Look, they’ve marked the guards and the homes where the men lived.” He pulls out another parchment. “And here is Baybridge.”

Merlin looks up from one he’s examining. “This is Corwin’s Grove.” He and Gwaine exchange a dark look. “They were planning on hitting another border town, from the looks of it.”

“And the village of Ardeyn as well. It’s on land that’s been under dispute between Mercia and Camelot for decades.” Arthur shakes his head. “This is a much larger scheme than we anticipated.”

“But why try to pin this on Essetir?” Gwaine asks.

“I don’t think they’re trying to put the blame on Essetir.” Merlin looks up, from one to the other, frowning. “I think they’re trying to make it look like Mercia is behind it and that Mercia is trying to pin the blame on Essetir. They’re doing it just haphazardly enough that it would take very little thought to shift focus to Mercia.”

Much as years of animosity tell Arthur it must be Mercia, Merlin has a point. This is all being planned in a calculated manner to eventually rekindle animosity between Camelot and Mercia, with Essetir dragged in as well. Whoever is behind this wants war for the Southern Kingdoms.

“There’s more here,” Arthur says, skimming through a hastily inked note. “Maybe we can find something else.”

Merlin and Gwaine both take up more pages.

“Supplies list,” Gwaine flicks a page aside with disgust. “They were planning on being here a while.”

“Right,” Arthur agrees. “This is a pay schedule. Each man’s name and what he’s owed and when.” He drags a finger down the neat rows of script, wanting nothing more than to crumple that damn thing in his fist. Seeing how little the lives of his people and Merlin’s are worth makes his blood boil.

“Wait!” Merlin exclaims. He’s holding a slender, unrolled piece of vellum. It’s the kind of note that might be tied to the leg of a messenger bird. “I’ve got something. It’s a note to someone called Rodger, he must’ve been the leader here. It says, ‘Rodger, meet me at the Woodcock’s Folly, two days hence on moon dark. He wants to change the next target.’ It’s signed, Warrek.”

“The Woodcock’s Folly?” Arthur repeats.

Merlin shakes his head. “No idea.”

Gwaine gives a noisy sputter. “It’s a tavern. In Othanden. What?” he adds when Merlin rolls his eyes. “I happen to know a few taverns.”

“A few,” Merlin scoffs.

“That’s only a few hours ride,” Arthur states. He looks at Merlin.

Who’s looking back, sharing the same idea. “New moon is tomorrow night.”

“Then we leave, now.”

Surprisingly, it’s Gwaine who tries to be the force of reason. “Now, wait just –”

“We _can’t_ wait.”

“He’s right,” Arthur’s agrees. “This is our chance. We’ll go to the tavern and meet this Warrek.”

“You two step a foot into that city in those colors” – he indicates Arthur’s cloak – “with the likes of four knights on your tail and that bastard’ll slip out of there like he’s been greased.”

Arthur snorts. Gwaine certainly paints a colorful visual, but he’s already got an idea forming. “We won’t be marching into Othanden with four knights. It will be just me and Merlin.”

Merlin looks over at him for a moment, like he has something to say but apparently he thinks better of it, because he clamps his mouth shut and gives a firm nod.

“What was that?” Leon asks from the doorway. He and Percival are both peering in, the width of their bodies combines blocks the entirety of the egress.

“Their lordships want to go hieing into Othanden to meet with a man who’s working for whosever’s behind all of this,” Gwaine explains.

“And what will the rest of us be doing?” Leon wonders. “Waiting around here for you to return?”

“Of course not,” Arthur shakes his head. “Two of you are going straight back to Camelot with the information we’ve just uncovered. King Bayard of Mercia is due to arrive at the Castle any day now, and we need to put a stop to any troubles before they can derail the talks completely.”

Percival asks, “And the rest of us?”

“Seeing what can be salvaged here of supplies and foodstuff and taking it back to Whitelake. Also, bringing them the news that we killed the men who attacked them.”

Gwaine huffs. “That still doesn’t answer the question of how a pair of royal –”

“Gwaine,” Percival cautions.

“Princes,” Gwaine continues, flashing Percival a wink over his shoulder. “I was gonna say princes. Anyway, one word that a pair of men from Camelot and Essetir are in town, and he’ll still flee the coop like a fox caught snatching eggs.”

“We’ll be in disguise, of course,” Merlin explains. “One of these rooms has stacks and stacks of clothing and mismatched armor. We’ll go in as common sell-swords. From the amount collected, I expect that they might’ve even been planning to have this group infiltrate a larger city. Perhaps even Camelot?”

It’s a troubling thought and adds to the urgency. Arthur looks at Leon, “One man from Camelot, one from Essetir to ride for Camelot. The rest to Whitelake.”

“Yes, sire.”

“Gwaine?” Merlin speaks his name as a question.

He gives a reluctant nod. “Yes, sire.”

“Good, that’s settled. Arthur and I will go and get changed. The rest of you, tell the others of our plans and then get to work.”

“One suggestion before you go,” Percival says, moving out of the doorway so they can pass. “Swap horses. Yours are too fine for sell-swords. This lot has a small herd of them pastured in a field on the far side of the village.”

It’s a very good suggestion. Loathe as he is to leave Virtue, Arthur can’t fault the logic. “Good idea, Percival. Whichever of you return to Camelot, take them with you. You can ride further, switching off your own mounts.”

“I’ll go get two of them saddled and ready for you,” Percival offers. “There’s tack aplenty in one of the chambers.”

Merlin claps Percival on the arm as they duck out of the map room. “Thanks, Percival.”

“Be safe, Merlin. Arthur.”

Leon and Gwaine echo him, Gwaine adding a brusque, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, but he appreciates the sentiment. He knows his own men hate to let him go off on his own, even when they’ve been ordered to do so. Merlin’s men feel the same. “We’ll be fine,” he says. And then adds, grinning. “I’ve got a sorcerer with me.”

“And I’ve got the best warrior in all the Southern Kingdoms with me,” Merlin remarks. They both ignore Gwaine’s noisy huff. “C’mon.” He grabs Arthur by the forearm, tugging him along. “The storage is this way.”

It doesn’t take long for them to rummage through all the spare clothing and gear and in a very short time both he and Merlin are dressed in rough homespun and mismatched leather and chain and have extra in their packs. They stow their cloaks away in saddlebags but give the rest of their clothing and armor to Leon, to be brought back to Camelot.

Percival has two plain, but sturdy looking geldings – one grey, one bay roan – saddled and waiting.

“One more thing before we go.” Merlin waves for Arthur to go with him, and they return to the northern end of the village where the dragon waits.

Lying in a cat-like sprawl, neck stretched out on crossed forelegs and tail curled around himself, Kilgharrah lifts his head when they approach. “What news, young warlock?”

Merlin shares what they’ve learned and tells him of their plans to go after the mysterious ‘Warrek’. “Can you take word to my father? If there’s further treachery afoot in Camelot, I want him to be on guard for it.”

““Very well. I will speak with him tonight, Merlin.”

“Thank you for your help, old friend.”

“You are most welcome, young warlock.” He turns and his gleaming eyes fix on Arthur. “Look after one another, young Pendragon.”

“We will,” Arthur bows his head. “Thank you, Kilgharrah.”

As they return to the waiting mounts, Arthur looks back over his shoulder. Kilgharrah is once again settling back down into slumber.

“He’ll wait until it’s dark to fly again,” Merlin explains. “It’s too risky otherwise. Wouldn’t want anyone in Camelot to see him overhead and report it to your father.”

Though he knows the comment isn’t meant to shame him, he feels the pangs of it regardless, hot and spiky like tangling with a thorn bush. “Yes, well, hopefully someday the sight of a dragon over Camelot won’t be an uncommon sight.”

The beaming smile Merlin fixes on him at that chases away any feelings of guilt or self-recrimination. He holds onto that warmth as they collect their horses, mount up and begin the ride to Othanden.


	12. Chapter 12

Riding at a hard gallop for several miles makes it impossible for conversation, but Arthur is glad of it. He has no desire to discuss all the many topics he’s been carefully shunting aside since last night.

Well… there’s one topic he wouldn’t mind following-up on. Even just thinking of their kiss suffuses his cheeks with warmth. He wonders if Merlin’s thinking about it as well.

“Damn,” he hears Merlin grunt, loud enough that it carries over the rapid hoofbeats and the sharp, noisy wind.

There’s a moment where Arthur worries that Merlin’s somehow able to read his thoughts and the curse is a result, but he chastises himself for that ridiculous thought almost immediately. Merlin looks over, sees that he has Arthur’s attention and points to the west.

The meaning makes itself when Arthur turns in that direction; low clouds have gathered on the horizon, thick and dark. They’re in for some bad weather. Rain at least, if not a storm.

“Think we’ll make it before then?” he asks, shouting to be heard. They’ve at least another hour in the saddle, and the sun is sinking low. It will have set by the time they reach Othanden.

Merlin shakes his head. “No, it’s gathering too fast. We’ll get wet for sure.”

His prediction proves right. It’s less than half a candlemark before they’re caught in a light drizzle and it only gets worse as they ride on. The rain and the darkness both begin falling in earnest. They’re forced to slow as the footing gets slick.

Luckily, they reach a wide, well-travelled road soon enough and then signs that they’re closing in on Othanden: scattered cottages, tilled fields and sign posts pointing the way. It’s dark by the time they reach the city proper. They slow the horses to a plodding walk and ride past the gates side-by-side.

“Any idea where to find this inn?” Arthur asks. He’s got the hood of his borrowed cloak up to keep his head dry, but the thick, homespun wool is nearly soaked through. He’d really like to get out of the rain.

“Well, it’s the kind of tavern Gwaine frequents, so I expected it’s not going to be in the best part of town.”

Arthur snorts, “Why doesn’t that surprise me.” He glances around. There are few people on the streets due to both the late hour and the inclement weather, but he spots a smithy with an awning-covered forge and a smith still hammering away by the light of two wide braziers.

“I’ll ask,” he tells Merlin.

“Tread carefully. We don’t know who might be involved with this plot and we don’t want word getting to this Warrek.”

He nods. He’s not planning on asking after the location of the Woodcock’s Folly directly.

The smith looks up as Arthur approaches, but only a moment, and then drops his gaze back to the red-hot steel he’s shaping. “Yeah?” he asks with a grunt. “What’re you after?”

Something in the man’s tone suggests that he’s not going to take kindly to being interrupted just to ask for suggestions on accommodations, so Arthur improvises. “My gelding’s pulled up a bit stiff in the rear. I’m worried he’s got a loose shoe.”

He waits several minutes as the man finishes tapping out the length of what looks like it will be a sturdy short sword. Once the metal has cooled from bright, cherry red to a duller grey-orange, the smith pushes the end of the piece back into the coals to reheat and finally gives Arthur his attention. “Yeah, a’right. Bring him under here.” He gestures to another area with a hitch post that’s clearly meant for large animals to be secured for shoeing.

Arthur dismounts and leads the borrowed grey gelding into place. The animal is placid and stands with his head hanging low; Arthur stays by his neck and scratches the white star beneath his forelock to keep him calm.

“Right then, let’s have a look.” The smith picks up the animal’s rear leg, tucking it expertly against a thigh. He pokes around a bit with a hoof pick. “Ain’t loose,” he finally says. “But the beast has picked up a stone.” He works it free and then lets the animal’s leg drop, giving the horse a friendly pat on the haunches.

“Thank you,” Arthur tells him, genuinely meaning it. He’d been distracted by the rain and the urgency of the ride and hadn’t actually noticed any stiffness in the horse’s gait. Although, perhaps he had subconsciously since he directed the smith to examine it. “What do I owe you?”

The smith grunts again and makes a dismissive gesture. “Weren’t nothing.”

“Well, let me pay you for your advice, at least,” Arthur presses. “My companion and I are looking for an inn for the night. Have you any recommendations?”

This time the smith accepts when Arthur hands over a few coins.

“There’s the Golden Apple. ‘s where the nobles stay.”

“Er, that sounds a bit above our means.”

“Could try the Boar’s Tusk, over on Tanner’s row.”

Arthur knows enough about these larger cities to know that any establishment in the part of town that houses the tanneries, and the dyers, and the knackers is going to be frequented by the less than savory. He shakes his head, knowing his dismissal will be understood. “Perhaps something in-between. Any place that offer stables and serves a good, warm meal.”

The smith scratches at his thick, black beard. “Woodcock’s Folly does a good mutton. That’s down the end of Merchant’s Row,” he points to the north. “And Fox and Gables has a decent meat pie and the pottage ain’t bad. That’s on the Southeast corner of Market Square,” he gestures in the opposite direction.

“Thank you, kindly.”

Another grunt comes in response and then the smith pockets the coins and seems to dismiss Arthur as he turns back to his work.

Leading his horse, Arthur returns to Merlin and relates the discussion. “It should be easy enough to find,” he concludes.

That statement proves true. Merchant’s Row – a wide street populated, as the name suggests, by various shops and vendors – comes to an end at a three-way junction, and a large building – windows glowing warmly – at the end sports a sign featuring a hen harrier or other bird of prey hovering above the titular gamebird.

The find the stable first, handing over their mounts to a sleepy stable boy, and then enter the tavern proper. Arthur pushes his hood down and tries to shake off a bit of rain in the doorway but gives it up as a lost cause. From the puddles and wet foot prints covering the wooden floor, he’s not the only one who realized the futility. Still, he and Merlin doff their cloaks and make their way inside to the bar.

The common room is perhaps at half capacity and the patrons are boisterous and noisy. Most sit around weathered wooden tables with their mugs, drinking and chatting and laughing. A few are stood around high tables, gaming with dice or cards. A quick glance doesn’t show anyone that appears suspicious or overly alert, although they’re a night early.

The bar matron, a stout, surly looking woman with mousy grey hair and of indeterminate years, approaches. “What can I get you lads?” The warmth in her tone belies the severe expression.

“Ales, to start,” Arthur says. “Perhaps a hot meal.”

“And we’re looking for a room for the night,” Merlin adds. “Have you any available?”

“Aye,” the woman nods. “I’ve one room left, though it’s got only the one bed.”

Arthur swallows but doesn’t look at Merlin when he accepts with a polite, “Wonderful. We’ll take it, thank you.”

After accepting payment, the matron steps away a few moments and then comes back with a key. “Top of the stairs, second door on the right. There’re spare linens in the cupboard. You two go on up and get yourselves sorted, and I’ll have yer ales and some supper waiting.”

“Thank you,” Merlin and Arthur tell her at the same time.

She smiles, and it takes years off her face. “Go on then.”

The room is small, but tidy and there’s a three-armed candelabra burning on a small dresser in one corner. The lone bed, neatly made in fresh linens, is tucked up against a wall. Arthur steps in behind Merlin and can only stare at it, while Merlin seems perfectly at ease as he hangs his rain-heavy cloak on a peg and then shrugs out of the leather cuirass and vambraces. He drops his pack and kneels to rummage through it. He’s in the middle of tugging at the hem of his shirt when he looks up at Arthur.

“Aren’t you going to get changed? You must be miserable.”

That knocks Arthur out of his stupor. He realizes he’s shivering with the chill. “Oh, right. Of course.” He’s clumsy as he works the fastenings of his cloak and can’t help but occasionally glance sideward to watch Merlin shrug out of his damp tunic to pull on a fresh one.

At one point, when Merlin’s bare-chested, he gives Arthur a brief but knowing look before pulling the homespun grey linen over his shoulders. There’s a smirk playing at his lips.

Somehow, Arthur manages to remove his cloak and the random bits of armor without too much struggle. When he looks up from piling the leather and ringmail pieces in the corner it’s to see Merlin holding out a fresh, dry shirt to him.

“It will help, trust me.”

Arthur gulps, but he nods and starts to struggle out of his own tunic. He forgets that it’s belted and tries to yank it up only to get tangled. Cursing under his breath, Arthur unbuckles the belt and lets it drop and then reaches back to grab the scratchy material between his shoulder blades to tug it overhead. He can hear Merlin’s low chuckle and he knows that as his upper body is bared, it’s likely flushed and rosy.

When he finally gets the stubborn, soggy tunic off Merlin takes it from him, trading it for the new one. He turns away to hang it over the door of the tall cupboard where he’s already hung his. It gives Arthur a moment without Merlin’s eyes on him to pull the fresh shirt on.

“Better?” Merlin asks.

Smoothing the coarse, but thankfully dry, material into place, Arthur nods. “Yes. Much.”

“Good. Come on, let’s get back downstairs. I’m dying for an ale.” He claps Arthur on the shoulder and then heads out into the hallway.

Though he follows, half of Arthur’s thoughts remain in that little, cozy room. What’s going to happen when they turn in for the night? He can’t quite shake the… trepidation? Anticipation? He’s not sure what to call it, but it lingers through the whole of their meal.

Mutton swimming in savory gravy with thick-cut vegetables, a steaming loaf bread and a mug of a hearty, faintly honeyed beverage make for a better supper than he expected. After they’ve finished, he and Merlin sit back in their chairs near the hearth, nursing tankards.

Finally warm – due to the cheery fire as well as the ale – and with a full belly, that strange, nervy feeling mostly disappears, although every now and again when Merlin laughs, or catches his eye in a certain way, Arthur can feel it send tingles down his spine.

“Do you think he’s here already?” Merlin asks, keeping his voice pitched low enough to carry just between the two of them.

“I’ve no idea,” Arthur shrugs. “But I don’t see anyone who seems like they would fit.”

“Right,” Merlin agrees. “No one alone or looking suspicious. Unless he’s a local and is one of the men at another table drinking with his friends.”

“If he is, he’s certainly got other things on his mind tonight than plotting the demise of the treaty.” He inclines his head briefly towards one of the larger parties on the far side of the common room, where two of the rough-looking customers have giggling barmaids sitting in their laps, and everyone is laughing uproariously as they toast and clatter tankards against one another and send ale splashing.

Commenting on the antics of the other tavern patrons keeps them occupied for a while, but after they’re handed their third refills, Merlin slouches further in his chair and eyes Arthur strangely.

Something about that look makes him squirm.

“What is it?” Arthur asks after the scrutiny gets to him. “Have I got ale on my face?” He wipes the back of his arm over his mouth.

“No, it’s not that,” Merlin replies eventually. “I was just thinking that I’m very glad you know about my magic.” He mouths the last word – they are in Camelot, after all – but it’s no trouble to read his lips.

“I’m glad too. It certainly made the battle easier.”

Merlin’s expression falters, just slightly and for just a moment. “Well, yes. It certainly comes in handy in situations like that. But um, I just mean… well, you know.” Whatever surety he’d felt before speaking seems to have fled and he begins to stutter and goes flush across his cheeks.

Taking pity on him, Arthur smiles over the rim of his mug. “Sorry. I know what you mean. I can’t imagine how freeing it must be to not have to hide something so intrinsic about yourself.” Of course, saying that reminds Arthur that he harbors a small secret of his own. Not that he’s been acting on his father’s instructions for … well, weeks now. Still, it was a devious decision that pushed him into trying to befriend Merlin in the first place and he hates that those thoughts were part of the beginnings of… whatever this is becoming.

Smiling wide, and eyes sparking with more than just firelight, Merlin nods. “Yes, yes that’s exactly what I mean. I hated keeping that from you. I mean, perhaps at first it wasn’t a hardship.” His grin picks up a smirky angle. “But, you didn’t exactly make it easy.”

“Me?” Arthur shoots back, but his own face is starting to ache with the force of his grin. “You’re the one who wouldn’t even admit you didn’t care to go hunting. Not to mention, what you said about my ‘quite limited and quite martial world-view’.”

Merlin laughs, but then his mouth clamps shut, and he squints across the table. “Wait. How do you know that last bit?”

Oh hell. He’d overheard that, hadn’t he, while listening to a private conversation. “Uh, Gwaine talks too much?” he offers hopefully.

“Well, that’s true. But Gwaine knows better than to repeat something like that.” Despite the narrowed eyes, Merlin’s not quite managing to smother the grin.

“Uh, well. I was coming to find Leon and check that your men were settled and…” he flips his hand in the air. “I may have overheard some bits of conversation.”

“Overheard?”

Arthur clears his throat. “All right, maybe I eavesdropped a bit. Just a few moments.”

“Oh, just a bit,” Merlin parrots but then he goes quiet and Arthur worries that he’s thinking of the other things that were said during that conversation. Particularly the parts about Merlin finding him ‘not hard to look at’.

Suddenly Merlin’s eyes go wide. “You knew,” he blurts out in accusation.

“Knew? Knew what?” Arthur’s genuinely confused – and slightly afraid of – which part he’s referring to.

“About the hunting. That I was dreading it.”

This time its Arthur who slumps back into his chair with a smarmy grin. “Oh yes,” he admits. “I knew.”

“And yet you still made me get up early and go trudging through the woods with you.”

Arthur nods. “I did.”

“And –” Merlin start to go on.

Arthur cuts him off. “_And_, you enjoyed it.”

Merlin continues to glare at him – although it’s softened still by his inability to keep the amusement from his expression. Finally, he gives a whole-body sigh. “Fine,” he relents, “I did.” He chuckles again into his ale. “You’re a devious bastard, Pendragon,” he mutters fondly, before taking a long drink.

Swallowing down the last mouthfuls of his own beverage, Arthur wants to nod his genuine agreement to that. Yes, he is a devious bastard, isn’t he?

Maybe this much ale was a bad idea?

Regardless, Arthur needs to clear the air between them and confess that he too came into their friendship with a secret.

“Merlin –”

Before he can get the words out to admit the truth, the moment is shattered by the literal shattering of a mug on the floor just a meter away from their table. The bar matron hollers at the rowdy patrons, who holler back and the air in the common room starts to take on a less wholesome feel. Two very large, very muscly men join the matron, crossing their arms suggestively. Several chairs are shoved back as a few of the more inebriated patrons stand to face them.

“Perhaps it’s time we retired for the evening,” Merlin suggests, cheekily.

“Good call,” Arthur agrees, getting to his feet.

They hurry through the maze of tables to the stairs, and just in time; behind them, the first fist connects, and the brawl commences.

It’s not until they’re in the tiny room, breathless and laughing, Merlin’s back to the door and Arthur slumped against the footboard, that Arthur realizes what being here means. He tries to ignore the immediate butterflies zinging around his belly, and he doubly regrets all the ale.

There’s a loud crash from below and they both wince.

“That was close,” Merlin says, shaking his head. “But I’m glad we got out of there. I’ve no desire to get into a tavern fracas tonight. Especially not after the day we had.”

“Right,” Arthur agrees, perhaps with a bit too much forced levity. “Today certainly was a very long day. We should turn in. Be well rested tomorrow.”

Merlin frowns in confusion. But then he looks to Arthur and then to the bed and something must occur to him because he just nods. “Yeah, that’s probably for the best.”

“I’ll take the floor,” Arthur hurries to say before Merlin can do something noble like offer to take it himself; or, even more terrifying: suggest they share the bed.

Again, Merlin continues to look puzzled, but he shrugs. “If that’s what you want.”

Does he? Arthur has no idea what he wants.

He wants to kiss Merlin again.

Or, rather, he wants Merlin to kiss him again. To take that first step, because he’s too nervous to make it himself. Even with the bolstering effects of the ale, he can’t quite bring himself to say anything. Instead, he crosses to the cupboard the matron mentioned and opens it to find several thick blankets and other bed linens and even a spare pillow. It’ll make a nice enough bed on the floor.

He lays everything out in the only space long enough to suit, which is parallel to the bed. “I hope you don’t mind stepping over me,” he jokes.

If Merlin is frustrated or discouraged by his odd behavior, he doesn’t look it. He just chuckles softly. “Well, I’ll try my best. But I apologize in advance if I get up in the night to use the privy pot and kick you.”

Arthur grins. “Duly noted and forgiven in advance as well.”

There’s an ewer and basin on the low nightstand and he and Merlin take turns getting cleaned up and then dressed down for bed. He lets Merlin go first, to make things easier. After, scrubbing his face and neck with a damp cloth, Arthur can hear Merlin climb into the bed – it’s only slightly creaky – and he finishes his ablutions slowly, until he’s sure Merlin is settled.

When he turns, Merlin is tucked into the bed, sheets pulled up to his bare shoulders. Arthur’s not sure if he’s wearing his trousers or not and tries very hard not to look further down the bedcovers to discern if he’s sleeping entirely nude.

“I’ll get the candles,” Merlin offers.

“You’re already in bed though,” Arthur starts to protest.

Merlin smiles. “Uh, I can do it with magic.”

“Oh! Right.” With no other excuses, Arthur steps over to his makeshift pallet and settles down on it. Despite the layers of woven blankets beneath him, there’s no mistaking he’s lying on an unyielding wooden floor. Still, he tries to make the best of it.

“Ready?” Merlin asks.

“Yes. Go ahead.”

There’s no noise, no burst of air or anything like that, but the little dancing flames are snuffed in less than a heartbeat and the room goes dark. Beneath the floorboards, the raucous tavern brawl has seemingly come to an end and though there’s occasionally a muffled noise, it’s mostly quiet.

Quiet enough that Arthur can hear Merlin’s soft breathing.

He shifts, trying to get comfortable. Gradually, his eyes adapt to the dark and the moonlight filtering through the window and he realizes he can just see the pale edge of Merlin’s arm, his elbow poking off the bed.

The bed isn’t that tall; he wouldn’t need to even reach that far. It’s absurd, but he wants to reach up and touch.

“Arthur,” Merlin’s voice breaks softly into the silence on a whisper.

“Yes?” he replies, just as low.

“Um, about before.”

This is much too fraught for any confusion, so Arthur asks, “Which before?”

Merlin sighs, though it’s not an unhappy sound. “During the battle. Well… just after it.”

“Right, right. Uh, what of it?” His heart starts racing and he knows Merlin must be able to hear how taut and sharp his breathing has become.

“I, um… I just feel I should apologize.”

“What?” Arthur sits up, rolling to his side and propping himself on an elbow. He can’t have this conversation lying calmly on the floor.

Merlin must feel the same because he’s rolled to his side as well, facing Arthur. The sheet has fallen to pool around his waist. In the moonlight his skin looks like fine marble.

“Why… why would you apologize?” Arthur’s breath catches after asking the question; he knows Merlin is going to admit he made a mistake.

Chin and eyelids both dipping, Merlin can’t seem to look him in the eye. “Um… because I think I… I think what I did might’ve… confused you?” Before Arthur can respond, he goes on rapidly spitting words out. “I mean, it was practically in the middle of a battle and I know how those can be emotional and confusing and cause all sorts of mixed feelings and –”

“Merlin,” Arthur tries to cut him off.

But Merlin is determined. “–I know that your reaction was likely because of that. And so, I’m just sorry that I pushed things then. That was inappropriate and I should’ve…”

He tries saying Merlin’s name again, but Merlin’s too focused on his apology.

So, he does the only other thing he can think of to stop him talking: he reaches up, cups a hand behind Merlin’s head and pulls him down for a kiss.

Words cutting off with a soft ‘oof’ of breath, Merlin goes still for all of a few seconds before he seems to realize what’s happening, and he falls into the kiss. Arthur feels as he sprawls down further in the bed, bringing them closer. His hand comes up to Arthur’s cheek, pushing fingers into his hair and cupping his jaw.

This time Arthur’s the one to boldly tease his tongue at Merlin’s lips and to push past as they part for him. And when Merlin groans, he lets the hungry noise that’s been building at the back of his throat hum against Merlin’s mouth.

He wants to pull Merlin closer, to get his fingers on more than the soft skin of Merlin’s neck, but he doesn’t know… he’s got no idea how far or how fast to take this. He wants to let Merlin take the lead, but he’s afraid Merlin’s going to be too careful with him, too hesitant. He just doesn’t know how to get them past that.

Still, he tries. 

Nipping at Merlin’s lower lip gets those fingers to clench tighter in his hair and scraping his teeth along the line of Merlin’s jaw wins him a high, throaty whine, and catching Merlin’s lips again, sucking on his tongue and kissing him deep and lush makes Merlin tug him closer.

“Arthur,” Merlin finally pants, barely pulling his mouth away from Arthur’s far enough to let sounds slip past. “Please. Come up here. On the bed.”

Despite his earlier nerves, Arthur’s well past any confusion over what he wants. He nods, rocking both of their heads with the motion and though it takes him some time to disengage from Merlin – every time he pulls back to see those kiss-bitten lips, he’s drawn back to them – he finally does and scrambles to his feet.

Merlin slides over in the bed to make room for him, flipping back the sheet.

He _is_ wearing trousers, but so is Arthur and he figures that’s okay – for now. He’s not sure how far things might go. All he knows for certain is that he wants to keep kissing Merlin for as long as he’ll let him. He clambers into the bed, and it’s a bit of a struggle for them both to fit, at first. But eventually, he ends up sprawled on his back, with Merlin half draped over him and caught in his arms, their bare chests pressed together hotly and Merlin’s mouth back on his.

They kiss and kiss, and he thrills at feeling Merlin’s hands exploring his arms and his chest and his belly. He maps out the smooth skin over Merlin’s shoulders and the stuttering bumps of his ribs and the divots low on his back. He presses firmly, stroking and squeezing, and Merlin leans into the pressure, letting out barely audible rumbling noises from deep in his chest as Arthur massages and soothes the sleek muscles. He can feel Merlin hard against his thigh and he wants to rut up into that firm heat.

“Arthur,” Merlin breathes, low and urgent, when Arthur bites at his jaw and trails wet, nibbling kisses to the line of his throat.

He feels fingers trace along his collar bones, then scrape playfully through his chest hair. He laughs softly, the sound muted against Merlin’s neck where he’s sucking and mouthing the thin skin. They circle his nipples, blunt nails skimming over the hardening peaks which makes him shiver. Though Merlin seems interested in just what kind of sounds he can illicit pinching and tugging at the pert nubs, he returns to his downward path after a few minutes, walking fingertips over Arthur’s ribs and playfully skirting his belly button.

The fingers pause then, teasing just at the hem of his trousers, lightly petting Arthur’s abdomen.

Arthur wants more.

He draws one hand back from where it’s daringly close to cupping at Merlin’s rear and reaches to take hold of Merlin’s questing wrist. Merlin’s fingers still their idle stroking, but don’t pull away. He presses gently at Merlin’s hand, flattening it against his belly and then guides it slowly downward.

“Yeah?” Merlin asks, voice skirling into Arthur’s ear.

“Oh, yes…” Arthur exhales. “Please.”

Though he loosens his grip, Arthur doesn’t let go of Merlin’s forearm, even as he delves beneath Arthur’s trousers. He loves feeling the movement of Merlin’s muscles and tendons as he works his hand lower. The first touch of Merlin’s questing fingers on his cock make him nearly sob, and then cry out into Merlin’s shoulder.

Merlin’s fingers wrap around him, tight and sure and he strokes slowly. Arthur’s sure there’s little more than an ululating whine escaping him, but he’s too caught up in the way Merlin squeezes tight and then loosens his grip once more to go back to exploring. He thumbs the head, smearing the already welling fluid, and traces the vein underneath and then he’s shifts until got Arthur’s bollocks cupped in his palm. 

“Gods, Merlin,” he groans, mouth open and panting against flush skin.

There’s not enough room for Merlin to really work up any momentum, so Arthur makes the decision to let go of Merlin long enough to get his hands on his trousers and shove them down to his thighs.

“Better?” Merlin asks with a lilting laugh.

“Much,” Arthur agrees adamantly.

Shifting for a better position, Merlin gets a knee between Arthur’s legs, pressing one thigh against the mattress, and then he uses the arm that’s somewhat trapped beneath Arthur’s body to cup the back of Arthur’s head, turning him into another kiss.

Arthur can do nothing but moan into Merlin’s deep, luscious kisses and writhe against Merlin’s thigh trapping his, while Merlin gets a skillful grip on Arthur’s cock. He strokes slowly at first, a tease, playing the foreskin over the hard shaft. His knuckle presses into that spot beneath Arthur’s cockhead and Arthur bucks up into it.

He can feel Merlin’s grin against his mouth. “Like that?” Merlin teases.

Again, Arthur’s left with only a whimper in response.

Merlin must take pity on him then, and starts jacking in earnest; a firm, regular rhythm that Arthur’s hips automatically begin rolling to match. It takes embarrassingly little time for that to bring him to the brink.

“Merlin, I’m going to –” He tries to warn him, but it happens too fast to get the words out. He comes hard, vision going white and that pain-pleasure spiking deep in his bollocks and rushing through his whole body. And he keeps coming, spurts and dribbles, while Merlin’s hand gradually slows and goes lax and works him tenderly through the aftershocks.

He lets out a long, pleasurable groan as his whole body feels like it melts into the straw-filled mattress. “Merlin,” he breathes. “Merlin, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Merlin says pertly, once again pressing kisses against Arthur’s skin. “That was beautiful to watch.”

That makes Arthur squirm at first – he’s never been good at taking compliments for his looks – but he realizes that Merlin means it a different way.

He revels in the glorious sensation of having just come spectacularly and the feeling of a warm body curled against his and the giddy joy at knowing his feelings for Merlin are reciprocated. Despite Merlin’s cock burning against Arthur’s skin like a brand – he’s so hard he must be aching – Merlin seems content to nuzzle at Arthur’s throat and pet Arthur’s skin.

“I want to do that for you,” he finally says. “Can I?” It feels strange to ask, but this is all rather new to him.

“Of course,” Merlin says, and his smile is evident in his voice. “Anything you want.”

Anything is… well, he doesn’t know where to start with anything. He’s had some experience – a few tavern wenches or professionals – but never anything with another man. It seems fair to tell Merlin that.

“You know, I’ve never done any of this, or… um, anything really. With another man, I mean. Never even kissed one before.”

Merlin arches his head back, so he can look Arthur in the eye. “I assumed as much,” he says, but there’s no sting in the words, just kindness and understanding. “And I don’t mind. I’ve only ever messed about with a couple of people. Two friends of mine actually.”

For a moment Arthur worries he’s referring to one of the knights. Maybe Gwaine. He’s not sure why that thought bothers him; he has no right to let it.

“Their names are Will and Freya. I think we were all fooling around with each other, when we were younger. But uh,” he ducks his head, looking away. There’s something here he’s reluctant to share.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Arthur offers.

Merlin turns back, smiling again. “I know. I want to. It’s just, I spent quite a few years thinking that I’d have to choose between my two friends, as potential lovers. But uh, in the end, they chose each other.”

Arthur should feel relieved, since it puts Merlin here, with him, now; but he also feels a sympathetic ache instead. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s all right. They’re still my friends. And wonderful people. They married two summers ago. They’ve got a beautiful daughter and she’s expecting their second child in a few months.” His expression is bright and his smile genuine.

“Well,” Arthur figures it’s only fair to do his own sharing. “I’ve only ever had experience with women I’ve had to pay.”

“What?” Merlin blinks, eyes going wide.

Arthur frowns, and starts to pull away from Merlin’s embrace, going hot with shame.

“Wait,” Merlin goes on, clutching at him. “I didn’t mean it like _that_. I’ve got no qualms with paying, if that’s what you like. I just mean you’re…” he lifts a hand and waves down the length of Arthur’s body. “You’re _you_.”

The frown turns up into a coy grin.

“Oh, stop that,” Merlin slaps at his bare belly. “You’re unfairly gorgeous. It’s just… I’d assumed you’d be spoiled for choice.”

“It wasn’t for lack of choice,” Arthur must admit. “It’s just… many long years of being lectured by my father that if I were ever to father a bastard out of wedlock, I’d bring ruin to Camelot.”

Merlin chuckles. “From the tone in your voice that was a direct quote.”

“It was.” He laughs with him a moment, but it turns into a sigh. “It was easier and safer to seek a bit of relief with a professional. And… never um…the full event. Just a hand or, less often, a mouth. And it was only a handful of times.”

“Oh.”

Arthur nods. “Right. Oh. There’s a lot I don’t know.”

“I don’t mind, Arthur.” Merlin ducks in close again, kissing him. “In fact,” he adds hotly against Arthur’s lips, “I’m looking forward to exploring those unknowns with you.”

He’s only minutes from having come, but those words make his groin throb. They continue kissing in earnest, Merlin’s tongue plundering Arthur’s mouth and his hands once more grabbing eagerly at skin.

Despite the pause for conversation, Merlin’s cock is still firm, and he rubs wantonly against Arthur’s hip. “Here,” Arthur says, pushing Merlin away so he can get at his trousers. “Let me get these off.”

It only takes a moment to get them untied and loose enough to shove down along with his smallclothes, and Merlin shimmies them past his knees and kicks them off entirely.

Realizing he’s still got his own pants and underthings half-on, hobbling his legs, Arthur works them down his calves, using his feet and he pushes them onto the floor as well. Then they’re wholly naked and Arthur rolls them so he’s the one on his side and Merlin is splayed out to be explored.

He kisses Merlin’s mouth, and his throat and even the springy dark hair on his chest – which makes Merlin squirm and giggle. He tongues Merlin’s nipples and learns that he likes it when Arthur nips at them and tugs them gently with his teeth, but soft licking or flicking the nubs with his tongue-tip just makes him laugh. “It tickles,” Merlin protests when Arthur points it out.

Merlin’s belly shudders magnificently under Arthur’s mouth, especially when he slides the beginning scruff of a two-day beard down the velvety skin. He kisses Merlin’s hips, sucking marks on the jutting bones, and even boldly kisses the tip of Merlin’s cock.

Arthur wars with himself over the decision to take Merlin into his mouth, but Merlin takes the decision out of his hands. Or, rather, puts it into them. “Your hand, please,” he grapples for Arthur’s arm and tugs it over, all but curling Arthur’s fingers around his cock.

It feels like his own, yet different. A bit thinner than his, but longer, he thinks. The head is just as plummy soft, and he smears the leaking fluid around with the pad of his thumb.

“I’ve only ever done this to myself,” Arthur admits, feeling just a bit out of sorts.

“Arthur,” Merlin admonishes gently, “I don’t care. Your fingers on my cock feel amazing. And with a bit more practice, we’ll both learn what the other likes. Though,” he adds pressing his head back into the mattress with a noise not unlike a purr, ‘I’d say you’re quite an apt study.”

Bolstered, Arthur continues to squeeze and stroke and is utterly rapt watching the purpled tip of Merlin’s blood-hot cock poke out from the circle of his fist. He pulls off a moment, ignoring Merlin’s whine of protest, and laves a wet strip up his palm and over his fingers. He can taste Merlin there, salt and sweat and it makes his mouth water. When he wraps his spit-slick fingers back around Merlin’s cock, Merlin moans again and his whole body undulates sensually.

He wants to see Merlin come more than anything.

“I want to see you come,” he tells Merlin, feeling bold as he says something so blatant aloud.

“Yes,” Merlin hisses. “Keep… doing that and … ungh. You will.”

He speeds his strokes, squeezing and he adds a little twist on the upstroke that he likes when he does this for himself. Merlin must like it too because his muttering goes nonverbal and he jerks his hips helplessly until he cries out. His cock spurts hotly over Arthur’s hand and spatters come over his abdomen and even up to his chest.

Arthur holds his softening cock until Merlin twitches – too sensitive – and then wipes his sticky hand on the side of the mattress. He drags the corner of a sheet up to wipe them both off.

“Arthur,” Merlin slurs, sounding pleasure-drunk. Arthur shifts closer and presses himself all along Merlin’s body.

“Thank you,” Arthur whispers into Merlin’s skin.

“Hmmm, why’re you thanking me?”

It’s impossible not to let his hands roam over Merlin’s skin. He reminds Arthur of Kilgharrah and the way the dragon seemed to display of the behavior of a large cat. Post-sex, Merlin is apparently a dragon-cat. He decides to keep that silly thought to himself. Instead, he answers Merlin’s question. “For being the brave one. For not letting this night pass without talking about that kiss. I… wanted to. I’m so glad you did.”

Even in the dark, lit only by moonlight, Merlin’s smile is incandescent. “I’m glad too. I’ve been wanting to do that, the kissing part, for quite a while now.”

Looking back to all those ‘almost’ moments that he now recognizes for what they were, Arthur can only offer a simple, “I see that now. And I’m sorry I didn’t sooner.”

“Don’t be. It happened as it was meant to.”

It’s a lovely thought and one that Arthur is more than happy to fall into sleep with at the forefront of his mind. He hooks the thin coverlet between his toes and manages to drag it up high enough to catch in his fingers. He tugs it over the both of them and then he rolls to his side, putting his back to Merlin.

Merlin makes a noise of protest, but Arthur just reaches back and tugs at his arm until Merlin gets the hint and rolls with him – much better on the narrow bed – fitting his body against all the hollows and curves of Arthur’s.

He nuzzles and kisses the back of Arthur’s head and seems to drift off with his nose still in Arthur’s hair.

Feeling more at peace than he can ever remember – all the anxious thoughts still to be explored having been firmly shunted aside – Arthur falls into an easy slumber.


	13. Chapter 13

Dawn rather abruptly yanks Arthur from slumber as a cutting sunbeam shines through gap in the drawn shades on the east-facing window and plays over Arthur’s cheek. He rolls away from it and hears a groan from behind him and it takes him a moment to realize that he’s spooned against Merlin’s body. And that they’re both naked.

The events of the night before come flooding back and Arthur goes all over hot and then cold and then – when Merlin grumbles something decidedly uncomplimentary about the sun against Arthur’s back and tightens his arms around Arthur’s chest – goes flush in an entirely different way.

Merlin is equally afflicted, if the hard line pressed into his backside is any indication.

A quiet thrill shoots through him; one that feels subversive and naughty. He shifts, wriggling back like he’s just getting comfortable, but he can feel Merlin’s gasp hot on his neck when he does so.

“You’re a damned tease, Pendragon,” Merlin mutters. “And it’s early.”

“Too early?” Arthur asks, trying not to sound overeager. He’s a grown man, for goodness sake, not some green squire.

Instead of answering, Merlin slowly rolls his hips, rutting languorously into the cleft of Arthur’s buttocks.

Arthur’s aching in moments and can feel his cock throbbing with every lazy thrust.

“Merlin,” he gasps, “I … I want…” He’s not entirely sure what he wants, but there’s a desperation clawing at him.

“Shhh,” Merlin soothes, “I know. I’ve got you.” And he does. One arm goes even tighter around Arthur’s chest, while the other moves down until he can get his fingers on Arthur’s cock once again. He takes a tight hold and jerks Arthur in time to the rocking of his hips.

It’s exquisite and amazing and … not quite enough. “I need…”

“Fuck,” Merlin curses against his neck, and bites there, right at the nape, very hard for a moment. Arthur shudders and moans.

“Gods, Arthur, you’re so… eager. And I want to give you what you want.” Even as he says it though, Arthur can hear regret in his tone. “Just… not today. All right?”

“Right,” Arthur says, exhaling gustily. He needs to get himself under control.

“Just… let me,” he utters, nearly babbling now. Arthur can tell he’s close.

“Yes,” Arthur agrees, easily. “Anything.”

“I’ll suck you,” Merlin gasps out, “After I come. I want too…”

Just that thought nearly pushes Arthur over the edge, and apparently it has a similar effect on Merlin because he shifts both of his hands down to Arthur’s hips, holds them tight and rubs himself off against Arthur’s arse in a few urgent, punishing thrusts. He feels the hot spurts of Merlin’s spend splash across his back and over his cheeks.

Merlin’s breath is like forge’s bellows against across his back, and Arthur wants nothing more than to roll over and kiss him senseless, to chase away the unsettled, restless feeling churning in his belly.

Before he can, Merlin seems to get control of himself. He takes Arthur’s hips once again and manhandles him, shoving and rolling until he’s on his back. Then Merlin shifts up to his knees and crawls into the space between Arthur’s legs. He’s forceful, making Arthur spread wide to accommodate him, and the almost aggressive way Merlin manipulates his body quells some of that restlessness.

Expecting the same delicacy and tenderness as the night before, Arthur lets out a shocked, “Fuck!” when Merlin simply takes Arthur’s cock in hand, bends over and nearly swallows him to the root. Someone thumps on a nearby wall, and Arthur shoves his own fist into his mouth to muffle the nearly agonized sounds that want to escape as Merlin just keeps sucking him, ignoring everything else. He grapples for Arthur’s free hand, pulling it down until Arthur realizes he wants that hand on his head. Arthur threads his fingers through the mink-dark strands, and Merlin hums pleasurably around him.

Arthur tries to hold back, to stay calm, but Merlin keeps urging him to control the pace with the hand on his head, and he only works wetter and messier when Arthur presses him down, makes him take his cock deeper.

It’s too much.

His desperate, “Merlin!” is little more than a muffled noise stoppered by his own knuckles, but Merlin responds with an equally fervent – and even more muffled – sound which reverberates right into Arthur’s bollocks. He tugs futilely at the hair caught between his clenching fingers, trying to pull him off, but Merlin ignores that and sucks him relentlessly as he comes.

He can feel Merlin swallowing and the way his tongue undulates as he does makes jolting bolts of pleasure spike at the base of his spine. Arthur goes limp, utterly spent and Merlin doesn’t pull off until Arthur’s trembling and over sensitized.

Arthur’s fingers are stiff when he finally releases Merlin’s hair – which is even more ridiculously sex and sleep-tousled now – and he pulls the other fist from his mouth to see the teeth marks embedded around the knobby joint at the base of his thumb. It’s going to bruise.

Merlin takes hold of his hand, studying the reddened bite. “I can heal that, you know.”

He didn’t know, but now that he does, still Arthur shakes his head. “No, leave it. I uh… like the idea of it.” He’d like it even more if they were Merlin’s teeth marks, he realizes, and making the admission – even to himself – feels strange.

It reminds him of something else he tried to admit. “Merlin,” Arthur says tentatively. “About what I said, while you were… I mean. What I asked for…I mean, before you… with your mouth.” He can feel the heat of embarrassment washing over his skin. “I didn’t mean…”

“I would,” Merlin hurries to say, “I want to. Gods, do I want to. It’s just…”

Right. They’re in a mediocre tavern and the walls are thin and they’re both days away from a bath. Not to mention, this physical side to their relationship is so new. It was presumptuous of Arthur to ask for something so… intimate.

“I understand.” Arthur tries to sound reassuring.

“No, it’s just… there’s something I need to explain, about my magic.”

“Your magic?”

“Yes,” Merlin nods. “Sometimes, when I get off, my magic can get a little out of control.”

“What do you mean? How out of control?”

“Look over there.” He points to the low night stand. The candelabra stands atop it, candles burning cheerily. He hadn’t noticed they were lit due to the sunlight brightening the room.

“Your magic did that?”

“Luckily that’s all it did,” Merlin admits. “At least I _hope_ that’s all it did. Last night…” His smile goes a bit dreamy. “Last night I think I dried all of our damp clothes after you made me come.”

Arthur can’t help it, he laughs.

Merlin tries to look put-upon but can’t manage to hold the stern expression. “Fine, fine. It is rather amusing sometimes. But if you let me bugger you?” –Arthur flushes, hot and immediate– “I’m afraid of what will happen.”

“Uh… right,” Arthur stutters, utterly caught up in the thought.

“When we’re back in Camelot, we can try. The rooms are made of sturdier stuff. Less flammable as well.” He winks, but Arthur doesn’t think he’s kidding.

He hopes Merlin isn’t kidding.

To his surprise, Merlin gets out of bed. He pads the two steps over to the cupboard with the ewer and basin. He’s still naked and getting to see him walk around so casual in his skin is rather delightful.

“I used all the water,” Arthur cautions. He’s unsure if Merlin is looking to wash-up or rinse his mouth.

“Not a problem.” Merlin utters something, and Arthur hears a brief sound like water flowing. When Merlin turns around with the pitcher in his hands Arthur can see that it’s full to brimming.

“There’s a spell for summoning water?”

“Of course.” Merlin looks around a moment and then shrugs and drinks right from the stout vessel. He carries it over to Arthur once he’s done. “Care for some?”

Though he’s never been a fan of stale water that’s sat out all night, he is rather parched. To his surprise, the water that trickles into his mouth when he tentatively tips the pitcher back is cool and fresh. He gulps down several long swallows and then finishes with a loud smack of his lips. “Delicious. And, I’m never going to get used to all the things your magic can do, am I?”

Merlin looks unaccountably pleased at that statement, and when he turns to set the ewer back in the basin, Arthur can see that his blush certainly does travel all the way down. He soaks a cloth next and gives himself a quick rub-down and then tosses it to Arthur, who grins his thanks and doesn’t even protest the chill as he wipes himself – and the linens – as clean as he can manage.

It isn’t until Merlin is burrowing back under the covers, declaring ‘We need a bit more sleep,’ that Arthur realizes what was implied by his statement.

To get used to Merlin’s magic would take time… lifetimes, probably. And, Arthur has just suggested that he’ll be around for that to happen.

It should be a terrifying thought…

It’s not.

When they rouse again, it’s a few hours later. Arthur is stiff and sore in odd places, but he feels better and more rested than he has in a very long time.

Merlin is still reluctant to get out of bed.

“C’mon, lazy daisy.” Arthur slaps at a bare haunch with a cupped hand, so the resounding strike is loud if not very painful.

All the sound does is inspire Merlin to burrow deeper under the covers. He really doesn’t do well with mornings.

Eventually, he manages to convince Merlin to get out of bed and although they both prove to be a bit of a distraction to each other – a slight hindrance, really – as they're cleaning up and dressing and readying for the day, it's not too much later that they make their way downstairs.

The common room is empty of patrons, and there's a man behind the bar this morning. He's big and bearded and balding, but he smiles broadly when he sees them. “Oh, lads!” he calls out. “Have yeh had yer breakfast?”

His demeanor is a little bit overeager, but Arthur isn't going to question it. Not especially when he's suggesting a meal.

“No,” Arthur shakes his head. “We haven't yet.” It's a bit of a sheepish admission, since he guesses it's several hours since sunrise and that the other occupants have long since risen and broken their fast. He wouldn't be surprised if the kitchens were preparing for the afternoon meal already. For some inexplicable reason, he feels the need to explain their tardiness. “We, uh, rode in late. You see. Very long day in the saddle after a week on caravan duty.”

Merlin clears his throat noisily and side-eyes him but doesn't contradict him at least.

The barman shrugs. “Well, to each their own, I say,” is his cryptic reply. “But I can do you breakfast. If you'd like.”

Fortunately for him, Merlin steps in and accepts gratefully. “Yes, thank you. We'd be very appreciative of that.”

“Good, good,” the man booms out. “I've still got sausages and kippers and some nut loaf that the missus made. Hate to see it go to waste, you know.”

“Thank you,” Arthur echoes. “You're too kind.”

“Well you lads have yourselves a seat and I'll be right back.”

As he disappears into a backroom behind the bar, Merlin and Arthur return to the chairs they'd occupied the night prior. Though the hearth is banked now, it's still warm and comfortable sitting there.

“Did that seem a bit peculiar to you?” Arthur asks, wondering if he's just imagining things.

Merlin shrugs. “Um, yeah. A bit. Though, I can't quite figure out why.”

“Me either.”

They’re quiet while they wait, but it's an easy, comfortable silence between them. One that's tempered by soft glances and knowing smiles hidden behind polite hands and Arthur feels giddy and lighthearted in a way he's never known. He hopes that his pinked cheeks and dazed mien aren't too obvious when the barman comes back out. As he’s balancing a massive, laden trencher, two platters and two brimming mugs in his hands, Arthur likely has nothing to worry about.

“Here ya are then, lads.”

“Thank you, again,” Arthur says as he takes in the tremendous amount and variety of food laid on the platter that's set between them.

“Oh, it weren't no trouble. All on the house lads.”

Arthur and Merlin exchange a look. This is getting stranger by the moment.

“Some of our finest wine for you there, as well. Watered o'course, seein' as it's morning. But, if you've a want for some cider or mead or ale, we've got 'em all.”

“No,” Arthur waves a hand over everything. “This is more than plenty. Thank you. We're grateful for your generosity.”

“Good, good. Just uh, holler if you need anything else or somethin' ain't to yer liking and we can get ya something else. The missus is workin' in the kitchens now on noonday meal, but she'd be happy to–”

“Oh no,” Merlin interrupts. “This is absolutely lovely. Thank you. Tell her we appreciate all of this.”

The man nods eagerly and then slowly backs away, still grinning.

Once he's finally back behind the bar Arthur looks to Merlin. “I suppose we should tuck-in.”

“Right,” Merlin agrees, although he hesitates as well. “He _is_ watching.”

“Yes, he is.” He reaches onto the platter for a rasher of pan-fried bacon and a plump sausage. There's also slabs of ham, eggs roasted in the half-shell, crisp-skinned kippers, little loaves drizzled in honey, berries and clotted cream and walnut-stuffed, baked apples. It's an embarrassment of luxury.

“All right,” Arthur says after biting into one of the sausages – which is perfectly seasoned and exquisite. “This is better than we eat in Camelot even on feast days when my father's feeling extra indulgent and wants to throw his wealth in visiting kings’ faces.”

“I know,” Merlin agrees. “The only time I've ever had a morning meal this extravagant was on my twenty-first name day.”

“Right, there's something really strange going on here.”

“Well, we should,” Merlin makes a vague gesture.

“Yes, of course.” Arthur licks at his bottom lip where there's a lingering bit of salty grease from the sausage. “But uh, perhaps after we eat?”

“Oh of course,” Merlin bobs his head fervently. “After breakfast.”

Arthur's belly is bulging and his trouser feel snug by the time he finishes, and Merlin is likewise sitting back in his own chair, a hand over his abdomen, groaning.

The barman – who's been watching them like a hawk, even while he pretends not to be – realizes they've finished and comes over to clear their table. Including the central platter which still holds an impressive amount of food, despite what they both consumed.

“You enjoyed everything then, gentlemen?”

“Yes, of course. It was marvelous,” Merlin says.

Arthur adds, “Absolutely.”

“Good, good.” He spots that their tankards are empty. “Oh, let me refill those for you.” He takes those up as well and is scurrying away – arms laden – before they can get another word in.

“Do you think he knows who we are?” Merlin asks.

Arthur was wondering the same thing, as it seems to be the only plausible explanation. “Um, that's what I was thinking. It would explain why he’s being so generous.”

“When he comes back, we'll ask what's going on.”

Strangely, for all his solicitousness, it takes the barman quite a while to emerge with their refreshed tankards. When they look up, they can see that the scowling woman from the night before is leaning out the door, looking between them with an odd expression. Once the man approaches, setting the once-more brimming mugs on the table, he's apologetic for the delay.

“My good sir,” Arthur begins. “We really must ask what goes on here.”

“Yes,” Merlin adds. “What is all this in aid of?”

The barman frowns and goes rather wide-eyed. He glances back at the woman, who is probably his wife, and then down at the floor. “It ain't in aid of nothin', lads. Just uh... glad to have paying guests.”

Well, now Arthur's really getting worried. What if Warrek has found out who they are and has bribed these tavern owners into waylaying them. Oh hell, what if they've been poisoned? “Listen,” he says firmly. “If you've tampered with that food, or slipped us something–”

“Oh, no. No, no,” the barman waves his hands urgently. “Gods no. This is, um...” he rambles a few more denials but can't seem to spit anything coherent out.

“Oh, just tell them you daft bugger,” the matron calls from the doorway.

“Lil, it's not–”

“Martin,” she scolds.

Obviously, the barman's name is Martin and there's enough of a threat in that tone that he sighs and his shoulders slump, and he turns back. “All right. I'll tell you. It were last night, late, after both you lads were... um, abed.”

The way he stumbles over the word Arthur has a sudden fear that Martin knows exactly what he and Merlin were doing before they actually slept. He hates that his pinking cheeks likely give the game away. Merlin at least is holding his composure a bit better.

“Er, well ya see,” Martin goes on. “Something came about...”

While he's still struggling to explain, the matron – apparently called Lil – bustles over. She's holding a serving platter; a solid gold serving platter.

“Look, lads,” she states frankly. “I don't know what kind of business you're here for, or what you're getting up to and it ain't none o' my concern. But, there's some kind of enchantment afoot here and this here is what comes of it.” She extends the platter. “This weren't no gold last evenin'. It were cheap pewter like the rest of my cutlery. Only this morning, most of it's also gone pure gold.”

Now Merlin is the one who looks ridiculously abashed. His chin drops, mouth gaping, and then his head falls forward and he's not able to look at them when he utters a plaintive, “Sorry.”

“Sorry?” Lil repeats. “Unless you're after changing this stuff back or takin' it fer your own, there's now't to be sorry for. This here platter is more coin than we make in a season.”

Despite that reaction and how calm they are about all this, Arthur can't help but worry. They _are_ in Camelot after all. “You, uh, won't say anything, will you? To the guards or...”

They both look at him like he's grown a second head. “Say anything? Ya daft boy? Why would we do that?” Lil admonishes. “You and yer companion are welcome to stay here as long as ya need.”

“Well, it's just,” he gestures at the platter.

Merlin lifts his head then. “It's magic,” he states bluntly, “and it wasn't intentional, but I can't say that I'm unhappy with the outcome. If I've caused any other difficulties for you, I apologize.”

“Oh, don't you worry about it, young man. We know that his highness, ol’ King Pendragon, in the kingdom proper would see us tattle on something of this ilk. But we're far enough removed from those lands and them knightly blokes that you’ve no need to worry. There's few in Othanden who give half a rats arse about magic.”

Arthur's half-tempted to let her in on who he really is – if for nothing more than to see her reaction after speaking his father's name with that curl in her lip – but he doesn't want to complicate things further. Instead, another thought springs to mind. “Well, we are just passing, so you needn’t worry about any further disturbances.”

Lil and Martin exchange a look; almost disappointed.

Which certainly makes sense from their perspective. Their stay of one night has certainly benefited. “But you see, before we move on, we're to meet someone. And, if you're amenable. We could use your aid.”

“Of course,” Martin offers. “Anything we can do.”

“Well first, do you know a man called Warrek?”

Martin and Lil look at one another again, silently communing in that way long-married couples do. “Can't say it's a name we're familiar with,” Martin answers.

“We're supposed to meet him here tonight,” Arthur explains. “Though, we don't know what he looks like. If a stranger arrives and if he gives you that name, or says that he’s looking for a man called Rodger, can you let us know?”

“And point him out to us,” Merlin adds.

“Aye,” Lil nods. “Aye, we can do that for you.” She cocks her head to the side, eyes narrowing. “Won't be any trouble, will there?”

Martin hisses, “Quiet woman,” under his breath. He's ignored.

“We hope not,” Merlin tells her honestly. “But if there is, you'll be well compensated.” He leaves a heavy implication on the last.

“Well then,” she says with a nod. “That's all I ask.” Smiling, she clutches the golden platter to her ample bosom.

The couple leave Merlin and Arthur alone after that, Lil back to her cooking and Martin to the bar, and they sit quietly, sipping their pleasantly watered wine. But Arthur can't stop grinning and Merlin's expression vacillates between adorably sheepish and 'cat that got the cream'. At nearly the same moment, they both burst into giggles over the whole matter.

“I told you it had unintended results,” Merlin snaps, but there's no heat in the words.

“You weren't kidding,” Arthur chuckles. “Turned their cutlery from pewter to gold. A handy spell, that. Do you have any idea how you did it?”

Merlin ducks his chin, even more abashed – if that's possible. “Uh, no. That's not a spell I've ever learned, to be honest.” He sighs, propping his lowered chin on a fist. “I told you the effects are impossible to predict. Sometimes I can control them but sometimes they're uh... a bit more far-reaching and random. They’ve never been quite so…” he circles a hand in the air, “visible?”

Arthur looks over the rim of his mug, smiling coyly. “Well, I’m flattered by that, to be sure.” He winks. “Although, I'm _not_ sure if I'm more excited or afraid of what will happen when we get back to the privacy of my room in Camelot.”

Merlin's whole face is aflame, cheeks as red as his scarf, but he winks in return. “I certainly look forward to finding out.”

In the off chance that Warrek is scouting the place or has anyone keeping it under watch – and to avoid further property 'damage' – Arthur thinks it would be less suspicious that two freebooters fresh off a caravan would decide to leave the tavern for the afternoon.

Merlin tries to argue that, “You know, it wouldn't be that uncommon for someone coming off a week of guard duty to want to spend their coin and the whole of a day in the tavern.” to which Arthur shrugs.

“I suppose you're probably right. But I needed to get out from under the watchful eyes of Lil and Martin.”

And Merlin can only agree. “They kept eyeing us and did little to hide it. Like they expected me to sprout feathers or turn their tables into oxen at any moment.”

“Do you think they suspected what might've uh... caused those magical outbursts,” Arthur asks, voice low.

“Gods, I hope not.” A somewhat amused grimace pulls his cheeks strangely.

They spend the early part of the day exploring the shops and vendors down Merchant's Row, stopping now and again to examine skilled crafts and curious wares. Merlin picks up an odd-looking implement at an apothecary, saying it's something Gaius would appreciate. Arthur finds a lovely, silken scarf for his mother.

They're discussing a late lunch – Merlin pointing to a street-vendor hawking meat pies – when Arthur spots a familiar splash of red behind them. He'd forgotten: Othanden keeps a small garrison of Camelot soldiers on hand. There's a small patrol of them making their way over to the same pie-seller. It's possible they're locals who've never been to Camelot, however it's more likely that they at least trained there and are simply posted in Othanden for a season or two. If the latter is true, it's quite likely they'll recognize him. The last thing he wants if for their disguise to be uncovered.

He and Merlin agree that it's best to head back to the Woodcock's Folly, instead of dodging Camelot soldiers the remainder of the afternoon. Of course, the moment they step foot into the common room, Lil is offering them bowls of piping hot chicken stew and loaves of fresh-from-the-oven bread and spiced cider to wash it all down with, and they can't turn her down.

After they both manage a bowl, plus some sumptuous fig and berry tarts that happen to end up on the table, they’re able to beg off another helping of anything and escape to the stairs. On their way up, Lil stops them.

“We've a larger room, if you'd like. It's gone empty this morning. It's our finest. Fit for even visitin' nobles.”

Arthur thanks her but waves away the offer. “We're fine where we are. But thank you.”

“As we won't be staying another night, it's no trouble to keep the room we have,” Merlin adds.

She frowns.

“We'll pay for the use of the room through the day, of course,” Arthur hurries to say.

Lil scoffs then. “You've paid for the whole damn tavern twice over with your little trick. So, I'd says you can stay in any bloody room you like for as long as ya like. Just be sorry to sees ya go, is all.”

“Uh, right.” Arthur nods. “Well, I do wish we could stay, but pressing business calls us back to uh, Essetir.”

“Right, right,” she replies, and her expression goes knowing. “Heard rumors about you folks from over yonder.”

“Oh?” Merlin asks.

Patting the air toward him reassuringly, Lil goes on, “Oh it's all good, young mister. Lively visitors we've had from up your way. It's just,” she leans in and waves them closer. Once they oblige – Arthur going down a step and Merlin holding to the rail as he leans down – she whispers conspiratorially, “Well, you know. Folks from round your way aren't too fussed about the magic, are they? Suspect you're not the first of your lot we've had stay under our roof.” She grins wide then. “Just maybe the most blatant about it!” That sets her chuckling.

“I'm sure you're right,” Merlin replies with a small laugh of his own.

She leaves them be after that, but right before she turns to go back into the common room from the bottom of the stairs she calls up, “And don't you lads worry. We'll make sure you ain't disturbed.” Then she winks at them and ducks out of sight.

“Oh, dear gods,” Arthur mutters at the knowing cackle that trails after her.

Merlin's much less circumspect; he hides a snort of amusement into his sleeve and then hurries up the last few steps, dragging Arthur with him.


	14. Chapter 14

When they get back to the room, Merlin shuts the door and grabs Arthur by the arms, spins them around and shoves him against the door. “Merlin,” Arthur hisses out, although he's really _not_ protesting very hard.

“What?” Merlin asks, a merry smirk pushing those charming dimples into his cheeks. “It's what they think we're doing anyway. I'd hate to disappoint them.”

Arthur huffs out a laugh. “Oh, you caught that too?”

“You mean that when she said magic, she meant fucking?”

The laugh is curtailed by a breathy gasp. Arthur hadn't realized just how much he likes it when Merlin talks so base and raw. He’s heard it so seldom and wants to hear it more. “Yes,” he manages, the word squeaking out. Still, when Merlin ducks his head, closing in to kiss him, Arthur turns away. “Wait.”

Part of Arthur wants this more than anything, but another part of him thinks he's being wholly irresponsible and selfish. They've a mission here, a duty. Spending the afternoon in a bed with Merlin – as delightful as that sounds – feels like he's betraying that responsibility.

Merlin must be able to read some of the thoughts on his face because he presses a soft kiss just to the tip of Arthur's nose. “We don't have to do anything, Arthur. I mean that. You owe me nothing,” he adds, suddenly serious. “If you never wanted to... well, if nothing were to ever happen again, I'd accept that you know. Even before this happened, I was happy just being your friend.”

Arthur swallows hard and nods. “I know, Merlin. I feel the same. And it's not that. I mean, I do...want. I want _very_ much. It's just...”

He trails off but Merlin picks up the rest of the thought for him. “It's just we've got the stability of all the Southern Kingdoms riding on this treaty and discovering who is at the bottom of trying to disrupt it should be our focus.” The firm set of his mouth softens, and he adds, “Even if this does feel incredible.” He punctuates that by kissing Arthur sweetly.

When he pulls back, Arthur’s nod is slow, his words thick. “Yes, exactly.”

“Tell me truthfully, Arthur; what can we do until Warrek arrives? Because even with my magic, I can think of no way to find him sooner. But, if there's anything we can do to get this information sooner or hurry him along, I'll step away from you now and we'll get to it immediately.”

Arthur thinks on that. He really does. And Merlin even backs up, so their bodies aren’t pressed together nearly head-to-toe, to give him breathing room.

And…

…he comes up with nothing.

All they can do is wait.

“Uh, nothing comes to mind,” he finally allows.

Merlin's grin goes wide and full of promise. “Then I can think of several ways to pass the time.” He removes that minimal distance between them.

Still, Arthur must ask, “Aren't you worried about what else might happen when you...” he makes a crude gesture with one trapped hand.

“Well,” Merlin says, annoyingly pragmatic, “hopefully it works out as well as it did before. I think Lil and Martin wouldn't forgive us if we didn't try to repeat our earlier results.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. He can't disagree and he can't deny Merlin when he's so, so close. His knee is wedged between Arthur's thighs and his hands are still pinning Arthur's forearms back against the door. Their chests push against one another until their breathing synchs up.

He's never been manhandled like this – even in combat he's usually the aggressor. Although, he's never involved any kind of playful force in his limited sexual experiences before, either. It thrills him and unnerves him at the same time. But every time Merlin does something that suggests he's taking a fraction more control or even ordering Arthur around a bit, he can't help the way his pulse races and his breath comes short.

Merlin… notices.

“You like this, don’t you?” he purrs into Arthur’s ear, nipping at the lobe to emphasize the question.

Letting a rather nonverbal, “Ngghh,” noise slip out likely does little to dissuade Merlin of his opinion. “Perhaps,” he manages, feigning nonchalance, albeit poorly considering the sounds he can’t quite hold back.

“S’ okay, Arthur,” Merlin goes on, voice softer, soothing, contrasting the way he presses and squeezes Arthur’s wrists with more force and grinds his thigh into Arthur’s groin. “Trust me, there’s nothing shameful about giving up a little bit of control.”

Arthur stutters, just a bit, “I… I’m not ashamed,” he needs Merlin to know. “It’s just…new.”

“Truth be told,” Merlin says, leaning his head back far enough to catch Arthur’s gaze. “It’s mostly new to me as well. I mean, I told you most of my experience was with Freya or Will. We were little more than fumbling about, seeing what we liked. I just know that this,”–he rolls his hips and stretches Arthur’s arms higher up the door–”feels good. Though, I’m not… well, as much of a physical person as you, you know. I mean, with the muscles and all.”

“I know,” Arthur says, trying to keep amusement from his tone when Merlin is being so serious. “And I’m not expecting you to defeat me in a wrestling contest or at the sword. But I like you making me feel…” he trails off. Though it’s pinned by the weight and grip of Merlin’s hand, he manages to flip a hand in a loose gesture again. “I like you making me _feel_,” he concludes.

Merlin’s slightly parted lips widen into a pert, playful grin. “And I like feeling you,” he teases. He kisses Arthur, messier and more aggressive than before. When he thrusts his tongue into Arthur’s mouth with the same slow, rolling rhythm that’s he’s using with his hips, Arthur moans around it.

He feels one hand come loose from around a wrist, though that free arm quickly gets recaptured. Merlin’s only pinning him there with one hand anchored over both his crossed wrists, and it wouldn’t even be a struggle to get away, but he stays still except to rock up to meet Merlin’s thrusts.

Fingers stroke Arthur’s cheek, follow the line of his jaw and trace around his lips where they’re sealed to Merlin’s. He opens his mouth wider, and a finger slips inside, then two. He sucks on them while Merlin drags his mouth away with a gasp, dropping it to moan hotly into Arthur’s shoulder.

Arthur thinks on what Merlin did for him last night, the way he’d let Arthur thrust into his mouth and suddenly he wants… he wants so much he _aches_. Around Merlin’s long fingers he manages, “Make me suck you,” he rasps. “Push me… down, to my knees.”

Merlin lets out another of those agonized groans. “You’re going to kill me aren’t you. That’s secretly the plot here, isn’t it?” He’s muttering and grumbling almost unhappily, and Arthur would be concerned except for the way that he’s already obliging, yanking Arthur’s arms down and taking his fingers from Arthur’s mouth to clench at his nape. “This isn’t about the treaty. It’s about making me lose my damn mind. Oh, what’s happened to Merlin? He’s off his rocker because of a ridiculously handsome prince and his damnable mouth.” He turns them, puts his own back to the door and Arthur doesn’t protest at all when Merlin shoves him down.

The floor is harder under his knees than he expected, although, perhaps he shouldn’t have dropped so easily at Merlin’s rather paltry amount of force. His wince must’ve been obvious though, because the next thing he knows there’s a cushion between him and the wood. Even as he gets his hands onto Merlin’s trousers and struggles with the ties, he’s laughing.

Gods, he hopes it’s always like this with Merlin. He doesn’t want to think about the future – or, hell, his father and what he’ll say about Arthur’s infatuation with another Prince – but… he wants this for as long as he can get it. Not just the sex, although that’s proving to be just as addictive as Merlin’s company and his sass and his winsome charm and his clumsy swordplay, but _everything_ he can get of Merlin; even his magic.

Perhaps, when this is all over and they need to talk seriously about what might realistically be allowed for them and the needs of both their kingdoms, he’ll tell Merlin all of this.

But for now, he’s going to try fellating a man for the first time…

He worries, for the first few seconds as he's kneeling there, staring at what's bared before him. Merlin's pale skin is flushed, and his cock is hard already, standing proud and erect and rather intimidating. He's not entirely sure how to proceed, although he very much wants to. Arthur thinks about the handful of times he's had this done to himself and leans in. He places both hands on Merlin's thighs to support himself, but before he can do anything too foolish – like try to take Merlin all the way down in one go – Merlin's got a hand on his wrist, pulling it away from his waist and using his own fingers to wrap Arthur’s around the base. "It's easiest to hold on. Helps you control things and then you won't choke yourself."

"Right," Arthur hurries to comply, and then just spends a few minutes studying the contrast of his pale palms, and the tan sun-kissed backs of his hands as they stroke and explore the blood-flushed ruddiness of Merlin's cock. There's fluid welling at the tip and he boldly darts out his tongue to lick it off.

Merlin makes a noise that is halfway between a gasp and a giggle. "Arthur, please," he hisses.

That gives Arthur the encouragement to start exploring: licking and tasting, tonguing the slit and lapping at the salt-sweat-skin of the plummy tip. He doesn't know what he expected, and perhaps there was a little bit of fear in the back of his mind that he would turned-off by this; but it's quite the opposite. His mouth is watering, and his own cock is aching, and he needs to shift on his knees, giving more room to where he's confined in his trousers.

He takes the tip wholly into his mouth, feels the way he must form his lips around the girth, and how to roll them over his teeth, and it comes quite naturally. And maybe that shouldn't be a surprise – he knows what he likes, after all – and he mimics the motions he's familiar with, bobbing his head and letting his tongue and lips glide over velvety skin. He holds Merlin in his mouth and sucks, lightly at first, but when Merlin's hips start pushing against the hand he's got splayed over the join of a thigh to hold him in place, he sucks harder.

His lack of experience and finesse don't seem to bother Merlin at all, from the noises he's making. Fingers brush lightly at his head and ear, like Merlin's fighting the urge to grab hold. He remembers how it felt to have his own pushed through the soft, thick strands of Merlin's hair the night before, to feel it taut when he clenched a fist. He wants to know both sides of that experience, so he arches up slightly, pushing into Merlin's hand. And Merlin huffs out an amused breath and pats at Arthur's hair before plunging his fingers into it and scraping lightly at his scalp.

Arthur shudders and moans around Merlin's cock.

"You're doing so well, Arthur," Merlin starts to babble. He seems to get rather chatty when he's worked up. Although, unlike his prior nonsensical mock-complaining, this is much more a mindless litany of praise and appreciation. "Oh, that's so good. Yes! Just like that."

It isn't long before Merlin's fingers do clench, squeezing tight and tugging Arthur's hair and the pinch – just a faint pain – keeps him focused, and he bobs his head faster and sucks harder. Then Merlin is saying, "Arthur... Arthur," in an urgent voice and he tugs at Arthur's head by the fistful of hair, yanking him off.

The first drops of come spatter on Arthur's cheek and the next on his lower lip and chin. Arthur's still fisting the base, so he gives a few final strokes and the last pulses of hot fluid dribble over his knuckles. Merlin's skin is juddering, and he winces, and that's when Arthur knows to let go.

Merlin slumps back against the door, breathing hard. His eyes are squeezed shut and his jaw slack.

Arthur had wanted to remember to look up when Merlin came, to see his eyes glow. Perhaps to see if his efforts were decent enough to cause another inadvertent burst of magic. But it all happened too fast, and he only hopes that if it did, indeed result in some sort of magical outburst, that it's nothing that's going to get them thrown out; or worse.

He reaches down to the cushion, intent on wiping the come from his fingers, when the movement rubs the coarse material of his borrowed trousers against his aching erection. Merlin still looks far too dazed to think about reciprocation now, flushed and blissed out with his trousers round his knees and his spent cock nestled slack in dark, springy curls. He makes for an enticing thing to look upon though, all debauched and lovely. So, Arthur works his own cock out of his confining pants, just shoving the hem of trousers and smallclothes to bunch-up beneath his bollocks, and he slicks his own palm with the cooling spend.

He's barely two strokes in when he hears Merlin let out a gasp.

"You look so good like that," his voice is pleasure-drunk and thick. "If I hadn't just..." he makes a lazy motion with his hand. And then that same hand extends to cup Arthur's chin. His thumb passes over Arthur's bottom lip, spreading and swiping the still clinging droplets.

Arthur laps at the digit, dragging over the pad of it to catch the briny taste.

Merlin grips his chin tighter, pushing his thumb into Arthur's mouth and pressing down on his tongue. His other hand comes up, curving around the back of Arthur's head. He feels held in place, controlled, but he's the one setting the pace at the same time. He jacks himself faster, squeezing his own cock almost painfully tight.

"Oh, yes, Arthur," Merlin groans and his cock gives a valiant little twitch.

That's all it takes, and Arthur has to fight the urge not to double-over as he comes, because he wants Merlin to see. He bites down on Merlin's thumb and lets it stifle the noises that want to escape, and he screws his eyes shut, overwhelmed, as the sensations travel from his bollocks to his spine and even down to his toes.

When he regains some sense of self, he blinks open his eyes to see that Merlin has one hand back on himself, circled loosely around his cock. He's not hard, but he's still stroking and tugging lightly.

"You, uh... have a very high opinion of your stamina, don't you?" Arthur quips, his laugh mingling amongst heavy, huffing breath.

"Oh, I can't come again," Merlin replies, smirking. “Not yet, anyway. It's just, watching you, I wanted too. I mean, look at you..." He gives Arthur a covetous once-over.

"Ah, right." It's a struggle not to duck away from such naked scrutiny. It's so odd, the strange things about their intimacies that make him want to squirm and blush. Being on display for Merlin, as much as he encouraged it – wantonly participated – leaves him feeling hot and all over tingly. Although he thoroughly enjoyed seeing Merlin that way, so he does his best to stop himself covering up.

They're both a bit giddy and maybe a little bit shy as Merlin helps him to his feet and once again summons fresh water in the ewer so they can get cleaned up. Fully dressed and presentable once again, Merlin lays down on the bed and beckons Arthur to join him. "It's still a couple of hours until dark, and i don't imagine Warrek will arrive before then."

Arthur nods. "I expect you're right," he says, though he's half distracted. He's looking about the room, trying to spot any incongruities.

"What are you doing?" Merlin asks after a few minutes.

"I’m looking to see what your magic might have done." He doesn't spy anything obvious.

"Oh, right," Merlin says, biting sheepishly at his lip. "I hope it wasn't anything too obnoxious. I worry."

"About?" Arthur asks, and then he does crawl into bed. They're both fully clothed, but it's nice to just lay close to Merlin, who seems to fit against him like they were made for each other.

Merlin hums as he considers his answer. "Uhm. Well, it's just that it does seem to be getting a little, um, more demonstrative."

Is he talking about the magic, or the sex? Arthur asks the question just to be sure.

"The magic. I mean, the sex just keeps getting better." He grins, wide and showing teeth and waggles his eyebrows, earning an eyeroll from Arthur. Then he sobers, just a fraction, though he doesn't lose the smile. "I guess I'm just starting to get a little bit worried about what'll happen when we do try other things."

"Well, you mentioned that already," Arthur answers. "About the uh..." He curses himself – at least in his own head – at not being able to say the words and feels his cheeks go warm. "I mean... what we talked about, in my room."

With a shrug that rocks Arthur's whole body, Merlin says matter-of-factly, "It's never been like this."

Arthur's brows go up.

"I mean, it's never felt this good."

He can't help himself; Arthur presses his head back into the pillow and smirks, smug and self-satisfied.

Merlin thwaps him on chest with the back of one hand. "Oh, like you're one to talk. I'm sure those tavern wenches you paid–”

Arthur cuts him off before he can finish, kissing him. When he pulls away, he says softly, "No, you're right. I had no idea it could be like this. And I _am_ a little scared of what will happen if we...when we're back in my chambers, but not for the same reasons you are."

"Oh?"

He told himself he wasn't going to say anything about this, but he feels that a little bit of the truth might not be such a bad thing. "Well, it's just that I don't think I'm going to be able to find this easy to give up."

"Give up?" Merlin echoes quizzically. "Are you planning on this not going further?"

"No. I mean, yes. I hope so." He grapples for the right words. "It's just that..."

Even though he can't figure out how to explain it, Merlin apparently gets it, because he nods. His eyes narrow and while his smile doesn't entirely reverse direction, the levity is gone from it. "I do understand. I assume that even though we managed to dissuade Elena and Vivian that your father will still insist on you marrying a princess."

Arthur sighs, gustily. "Yes. I've no doubt that he'll choose someone for me who ensures a match that's best for Camelot. A marriage to strengthen ties between Camelot and an ally is what he has planned for me."

Merlin's lips press tighter and to one side. He looks speculative. "Well... what if you and I–” he begins, and then stops himself, biting at his lip again.

But now that Merlin's put the idea in his head, Arthur realizes he'd never even considered that. "I don't know." Which isn't a lie, exactly – although he can imagine how Uther would react to the idea. He'd probably have better luck getting Uther to accept magic. "I mean, would your father allow such a thing? Doesn't he have expectations for your future as it ties to Essetir?"

"No," Merlin shakes his head. "Not like yours does. My father would like me to have the same chance he did. To meet someone and fall in love and marry them, with no alliances or treaties as the reason for the union. And because I want to, not out of any sense of obligation."

It's so foreign from everything Arthur's ever known that he's having a hard time coming to terms that such a thing is even possible. They're both royalty; there are expectations, after all. "Well, what about heirs? The throne?"

The look Merlin fixes on him then is both sympathetic and sad. "I'd forgotten that bit. I mean, for you. It's different for me, Arthur. I guess it's not that common or widely done in other kingdoms where lineage is so important, but my father's focus differs. He cares more about what's best for Essetir and who the best successor is by virtue of their abilities and who will follow his guidance in ensuring Essetir remains prosperous. He'll likely appoint an heir, and even then, only if it's agreed upon by his council."

"Well that seems a rather inefficient way to do things," Arthur retorts, irritated for no reason he can figure.

Merlin just shrugs again. "It is different," he acknowledges. "But I'm not one to argue as it leaves me free from that obligation."

Thinking on it, Arthur doesn't quite know if he's capable of getting the right sense of what Merlin's describing. His entire life he's been raised as a Prince and next-in-line for the throne. Even though his mother had tried to soften things for him over the years – reminding Uther that their son was still just a boy when Uther wanted him out on patrols or sitting in council meetings at a young age and letting him off duty to go riding or play in the gardens with Morgana – she never actually objected to the idea of him being heir. Though it chafes at him, Arthur knows he's struggling with the concept simply because if he accepted such ideas, he'd have to admit that it could mean he'd look upon his whole life with a certain regret.

"That's not to say that my father couldn't suggest me to replace him," Merlin adds, like it's a consolation. "And I know he's been grooming me for the position my whole life. But, much will depend on the choices I make and the things I would like to do."

Arthur lets out a heavy sigh through pursed lips. Even just imaging that kind of freedom makes him feel shameful and guilty. "Every time I feel like I don't understand you or your way of life, I come to realize it's not that I don't understand, it's that I'm envious."

"What about your mother?" Merlin asks softly, hesitating for the first time in this conversation. "What would she want for you?"

"Well, she and my father were an arranged marriage, but it wasn't decided upon until after they'd met. They at least had a chance to meet and fall in love before it was declared their union would be good for both the DuBois and Pendragon families." He scratches at his chin as he thinks about what his mother might say to this conversation. "I don't think she'd ever considered there being another way. She and my father both were born to nobility and that is how things have always been. But, to be honest, I think she'd side with you." He smiles, imagining how indignant she might get at hearing such a thing. "I mean, she'd never want me to be forced into something, but I'm sure she knows that I'd feel duty-bound to do what my father considers best for Camelot."

He lays his head against Merlin's chest, thinking quietly a moment. "Although, even if she did agree, she's in no condition to speak up on my behalf."

Merlin pulls him closer and kisses his brow. "I'm sorry, Arthur. This is heavy talk for what's been a pleasant afternoon. And we've got an interesting evening to look forward to. Perhaps we should postpone any further discussion on topics such as these."

"Right," Arthur agrees, and manages a short chuckle. "I expect our futures won't be a concern if we're not successful in sussing out who's responsible for everything that's threatening the treaty."

"Exactly."

Instead of deep, personal conversation, they spend the next little while alternating between dozing and chatting idly about simple, pleasant things. Sharing memories of youthful exploits with their various knights and amusing moments from their childhoods. It's a lovely way to spend an afternoon – for as much as having a lie-about is foreign to Arthur – but even as he's laughing and occasionally drifting in that liminal space between waking and sleep, he's unable to completely push away the sense of guilt that he’s forgotten something.


	15. Chapter 15

As the light passing through the partially drawn curtains changes in quality from late afternoon to the warmer hues of sunset, the tavern begins to come alive beneath their feet. Once dusk has truly fallen and its candle glow keeping their room lit, Arthur finally climbs out of the bed.

Merlin, who'd been laying quiet – though Arthur isn't sure if he was actually dozing – turns to gaze at him. He's slow-eyed and sluggish. "I suppose we must," he sighs. He holds out a hand and lets Arthur haul him up from the bed. They refresh themselves, straighten up clothes that have gotten wrinkled from an afternoon abed (and Merlin's magic might have a hand in aiding that effort) and then Arthur gives Merlin a quick, but affectionate kiss before he opens the door. He waves Merlin on, and he can't help smiling as he follows.

The common room is over a third occupied and there are more patrons walking in, so Arthur hurries to claim that small table near the fire where the sounds of the crackling hearth might help to disguise some of their conversation. In addition, the location gives them a good view of the whole of the room. Surreptitiously scanning, Arthur recognizes a few faces from the night before – who must be regulars – but there's no one particularly suspicious that catches his eye.

Lil shows up only a few moments after they've taken their seats, a tankard of ale for each of them. "Dinner, lads?" she asks cheerily.

Arthur feels like he shouldn't want to eat for a week after as much as they were plied with earlier, but he finds himself rather ravenous. "More of your cooking would be wonderful, Lil. Thank you."

She beams. "I'll be right back with that then."

He's not quite sure what to make of the wink she throws back at them as she wends through the scattered tables to the kitchens. After she returns with brimming platters of roasted capon – half a bird each – ringed by braised turnips and mushrooms she leans in and conspiratorially whispers, "By the by, sorry for the wooden tankards, lads, but for some reason, half my pewter mugs have turned up pure silver." She lets out a low, knowing chortle.

Merlin looks at Arthur and he looks back and they both shake their heads. He’s quite sure that the flush on Merlin’s cheeks matches his own. "Uh, let's tuck in, shall we. It looks delicious."

Fortunately, Lil leaves them to their meal, although she's back with a refill once they've both finished eating – more ale and more innuendo. It would be embarrassing if it wasn't all so good-natured.

Sipping at the second mug, albeit sparingly, Arthur suggests, "Maybe we should get some dice or something, to pass the time. So we don't look to inconspicuous just sitting here nursing a couple of drinks overlong?"

"That might be good, yeah. I can manage that, though. No need to trouble one of the other tables." Merlin reaches into a small belt pouch, his eyes flicker to gold briefly, and when he draws his hand out, he's got a pair of weathered, bone dice in hand.

Arthur laughs quietly. "I suppose I'll have to take your word for it that you won't cheat?"

Flashing him a look of wide-eyed innocence – that's ridiculously over-the-top – Merlin playfully teases, "Who, me?" He rolls the dice and they tumble to a stop dead in the center of the table, both showing matching six-marks.

"Well," Arthur chuckles, "at least I know better than to bet against you."

It's an entertaining way to pass the time, and they both get a bit absorbed in their gaming, although Arthur keeps an eye on anyone coming into the tavern. A few lone patrons have wandered in and taken seats in various places around room. One joins another table, filling in at some kind of card-based gambling when the previous passed-out gambler is pushed off his stool, and another looks like he's come fresh from another tavern as he's barely able to stumble his way over to the bar. He loses sight of a third man, and says to Merlin under his breath, "Do you see the man who just..."

He trails off, interrupted by Lil. She's got another pair of mugs in hand. Arthur frowns, and tries to wave off the drink, "I'm not sure–”

Before he can finish the protest, she sets them down and under the guise of reaching for the empties she whispers, "That feller you were lookin' for. Warrek. He's here. Asked me if I knew a bloke called Rodger. He's over near the door. Green cloak, awful, scraggly beard. You can't miss him."

"Thank you, Lil," Arthur replies, genuinely meaning it. "We're in your debt."

"Not likely," she titters and splays her empty hand over her bosom, like Arthur just offered her a bit of exaggerated flattery. "Oh, you." She wags a finger at him, "You stop that sort of talk, young man. Else I'll have to have you and your mate put out of here and into the street." She's still laughing and shaking her head as she leaves the table and stops by another table nearby to gather their empties as well.

"How do you want to do this?" Merlin asks around the rim of the mug, using it to hide his words rather than drinking from it.

"We'll go to the door, like we're making to leave. Can you, you know?" He makes a wiggling motion with his finger through a bit of spilled ale on the tabletop.

Merlin frowns thoughtfully. "Is that a good idea? Surrounded by all these people, if he were to suddenly slump over or get a warning out or something, that might call attention to us. What if we just tell him we're here on behalf of Rodger? Ask him to step outside, follow us to him. Once we're outside, then I can..." he repeats the little finger waggle.

Arthur nods. It's as good a plan as any if they want to keep their cover. He takes a final swallow of ale, and lets the tankard hit the tabletop heavily, like he's lost his grip, sending its' contents sloshing. He yawns, loudly and stretches his arms back, nearly striking Merlin with one outflung backhand. As he stands, he staggers, taking hold of the back of his chair like he's unsteady on his own feet. Merlin is likewise feigning inebriation, and they bump shoulders and jostle about while making their way to the door.

They pause there, and Arthur affects a confused expression. He looks to Merlin and then down at the man sitting at a table a few feet away. Wearing a deep green cloak, his beard is uneven and unkempt, scattered with wiry gray bristles, and he's sitting with a mug of ale that's still near to full, despite how many times he's brought to his mouth.

"Say," Arthur finally slurs, stepping closer to the man. "You wouldn't happen to be looking for a fellow called Rolf... no, no, wait. It's Rodger. You wouldn't be looking for a man called Rodger would you?"

Warrek – because it's clearly him – narrows his eyes and replies with a scowling, "What's it to you?"

"Oh," Merlin shoves past him, nearly falling into Warrek's table. He pitches his voice to a not-so-quiet attempt at a whisper. "Yeh see, he paid us to wait here. Says someone would come looking. Bloke like he's got a badger's hair on his chin." He makes a gesture at his own chin, indicating the beard.

"Aye," Arthur nods excessively. "Said he'd pay us another coin if we brought him, and that's you, to him. Uh, that's Rodger." He waves his hands incomprehensibly.

Merlin elbows him. "No... no, no, no, yer wrong." He shakes his head and his impression of a man deep in his cups is so spot on that Arthur worries maybe he did have a bit too much ale. "See, we was supposed to go an' get him, when the badger man showed up." He jerks a thumb in Warrek's direction.

"Oh," Arthur replies and then he gives a sharp nod. "Right. Then let's go get him, then."

They back away, apologizing, and turn back for the door. After another few uncoordinated steps bring them to the egress, Arthur feigns a clumsy misstep that sends him sidling into Merlin and hisses out, "Is it working?" as he rights himself using Merlin's arm for balance.

"He's following," Merlin confirms, as he plays at getting Arthur upright and moving again.

They weave their way out of the tavern and into a chill, but clear and starry night. It isn't easy to pretend he doesn't hear the footsteps padding after them as he and Merlin keep up their drunken meandering, heading around the corner of the inn towards the back where the stables are housed. Arthur finally stops at the corner just at the end of the building and over-loud, whispers, "Hey, Rodger, you here? We found that bloke for you."

Behind him, Arthur hears the slide of steel on leather as Warrek draws some kind of weapon. "All right," Warrek barks out. "Where is he?"

Spinning around, Arthur jerks back like he's utterly shocked to find Warrek there. Affronted and oblivious the only way a drunkard can be, he looks down at the long dagger and asks, "What's this about?"

Meanwhile, Merlin continues peering into the darkness behind the barn. "Yeah, what's afoot? Your friend looks like he's passed out back here. Or maybe dead."

"What?" Warrek blurts, and he shoves past them both.

"Does this mean we ain't getting paid our coin?" Arthur asks, keeping up the act, although he's drawing his own sword silently.

"Where the hell is–” Warrek starts to demand, turning back to them. Before he can get the dagger up, Arthur slashes at it, knocking it from his hand expertly.

Levering the sword, Arthur aims it at Warrek's chin.

Though his chin lifts, Warrek glares, defiant. "What's goin on here? Some kind of robbery?"

Merlin steps closer to him, and his expression is chilling. "No, nothing of the sort. You see, your friend Rodger isn't coming. We're here in his stead." He raises a hand, and even though he's weaponless, Arthur would be far more fearful of him than anyone with a sword.

He doesn't think that Warrek quite recognizes the threat though, because he turns his scowl on Arthur. "What's he mean? If this ain't about coin, what's it about then?"

"Oh, it's about you telling us who's behind the attacks on Camelot and Essetir villages."

Warrek scoffs, "Like I'll talk to you ponces."

"Yes," Merlin agrees and his eyes start to swirl with molten light. "You will." He breathes out archaic, guttural words while his eyes blaze and when he bites down on the last, a bolt of pure light surges at Warrek, right between the eyes.

Warrek stumbles back, bouncing against the wall and then slumps there, shaking his head like he's been struck. "Wha? What'd you do to me?" he slurs, but the words are weak and mumbled.

Merlin ignores the question. "Bring him back here," he instructs.

Arthur complies, getting Warrek's arm around his neck and he half guides-half carries him into an empty stall.

"Sirs?" a tremulous voice calls out. It's the stable boy who took their coin the night before. He's stood in the aisle, lantern in hand, just outside the stall and looks quite alarmed and wide-eyed.

"Oh, hello," Arthur says, gentling his voice. '"You're the boy who took our mounts last night. You did a good job with them."

The boy nods but swallows hard.

"Our friend here has had a bit too much mead. Would you mind running inside and letting Matron Lil know we're going to make use of the barn for a bit?"

Merlin plucks a shiny silver coin from seemingly out of nowhere and he flips it in the air. Arthur wonders if the flicker of light is a genuine reflection from the moon or if Merlin's put on a bit of artifice for the lad's benefit.

The stableboy catches it, bobs his head eagerly and then darts off into the night between them. He expects that Lil will know to keep him inside for the time being. They could do without witnesses for what's to happen.

Without the meager light from the small oil lamp, Arthur risks a small brazier that he drags into the cubicle. Merlin finds a small milk stool and they get Warrek seated on it and bind his hands and feet. He's prone to tipping – whatever magic Merlin used making him tractable but clumsy – so they prop him in the corner of the box stall. Warrek seems to come a bit more aware at their jostling and he blinks muzzily and shifts around. Finding himself confined, he tests the bonds. When he realizes fully that he's secure, he struggles harder and begins cursing. “Who the hell are you. What do you want? What did you do to me?"

Assured that he's got Warrek tied securely – his continued attempts at thrashing about get him no looser – Arthur nods to Merlin and then steps back. He props his sword next to him, leans an elbow on the top edge of the stall door and crosses his boots at the ankle, like he's settling in to observe. Meanwhile, Merlin just paces back and forth in front of their prisoner, three steps one way, three steps back...

"What the hell is this?" Warrek demands. "Who are you?" It's clear he's getting unnerved by Merlin's silence and his caged-beast stalking.

"Well, who we are isn't as important as where we're from." Arthur answers lightly. He'll let Warrek keep worrying over Merlin's role for a bit.

"And where's that?" he spits out.

"I'm from Camelot," Arthur tells him, giving a mocking sort of half-bow.

"Essetir," Merlin adds in a hiss.

"And we're here," Arthur goes on, "because we want to know who is behind the attacks on Whitelake and Baybridge and who is plotting to upset the peace alliance currently being negotiated in Camelot."

Warrek continues to scowl during the explanation and then he turns his head and coughs up phlegm, spitting it toward Merlin's boots. "I don't know nothin' about what you're talking about."

"Oh, you do," Merlin states, cold and matter-of-fact. "And in a few minutes, you're going to want to tell me all of it."

"LIke hell I will," Warrek scoffs, but there's hesitation in the words and fear in his eye.

Arthur's not sure if Merlin's got some kind of spell that can compel Warrek to speak truth, or if he's planning on relying on old-fashioned torture. Or, worse... a combination of both. He's half-afraid Warrek's going to make them find out. He's regretting that they didn't talk through their plan more, but it's not for Warrek’s sake that he's concerned. Whatever they do to Warrek is well-deserved and he'll feel no remorse for it. Arthur just doesn't want to see Merlin have to take such a dark path.

"Oh, you will," Merlin says again. He snaps his fingers and a series of lamps, hung from nails around the circumference of the walls, flare to life. The slumbering horses – theirs and two others – startle and stir, whickering and stamping restless hooves.

Blanching, Warrek shouts, "You're a gods-be-damned sorcerer!"

Arthur takes up his sword. He's just far enough away that extending it puts the tip a few inches from Warrek's chest. "And if you value your life, you'll lower your voice."

Warrek gulps but doesn't entirely loose his bravado. "Oh, I will, huh?"

Arthur nods.

"What's to happen I start up a cry and hue to bring the guards runnin'?"

"Try it," Merlin says, and his grin is unnerving.

Even in the face of that, Warrek maintains his defiance. "What're you gonna do? Cut out my tongue? If you kill me, you learn nothin'."

Merlin laughs then, and it's a disturbing almost maddened sort of sound. "You think that your death would stop me finding out what I need to know?" He shakes his head. "No. I could pull the answers from your cold corpse if I wanted."

Paling further, Warrek looks like he's struggling now, to maintain any semblance of composure.

Arthur can't blame him; Merlin sounds eerily matter-of-fact and unconcerned that he's talking of necromancy. He feels the chill of horripilation run down his arms.

"I don't know nothin'," Warrek repeats, this time stuttering.

"You don't?"

"No, I... I mean." His brows dip inward and his scraggly beard quivers as he fights letting the words out. "No, I do." He frowns at hearing the admission from his own lips.

"You're going to tell me the truth, like it or not," Merlin tells him. "I've already used my magic to put your will under my control. If I choose it, I could make you cut your own tongue out. Or take that dagger and carve off your own bollocks right here, while we watch, and you couldn't do anything about it."

Warrek starts squirming again, though this time it looks like it's less to free himself and more to cower away from Merlin. "All right. All right. I'll tell you what I know. Just, none of that... don't make me do nothing to myself."

Merlin steps back, lets his hands fall to his sides. "Talk then, and perhaps I won't have to."

"Right, right,” Warrek starts, suddenly tractable. “Well, y'see, it were like this. A man paid me to put together a band of cutthroats. Real rough types that would work for cheap. A few coin and the spoils more or less. He sends me instructions, now and again. What to do and where to send these blokes. So, we set up in that little village, with the old keep. To give 'em a place to bunk down. Then I got word to send them on to Whitelake." He hesitates and then seems to add reluctantly, "It were supposed to look like Mercia was behind all of it."

"Is that all?" Arthur asks. They hadn't received reports of attacks from any other towns or villages in either Camelot or Essetir, but he and Merlin have been gone a few days and he doesn't know if there could've been strikes before or after Whitelake.

Warrek shakes his head. "No, not exactly. No more raids that is. But, there's a wagon of Mercian wine making its way to Camelot right now. It uh, been dosed. Half the bottles are poisoned. First few are fine, but get a couple in and it's there in all the rest."

"What kind of poison?" Merlin bites out urgently.

"Dunno."

Merlin's eyes flare. "Tell me!"

Gibbering now, Warrek squeezes his eyes shut. "I don't know. Truly I don't... please... All he told me was that it were slow acting. Something that'll take time to notice, so that those who drink it don't feel it for a while and they'll keep drinkin'."

Though Merlin curses under his breath, when a few moments pass and nothing happens to him, Warrek peels his eyes slowly open.

"We've got to stop that," Arthur mutters. "When did it leave? The wagon?"

Warrek starts to laugh then; it's a low, ugly and desperate sound. "You ain't gonna make it. It's two-days hard ride to Camelot from 'ere. That wagon left day before yesterday. Ain't no way you can't stop it. No matter what happens to me, Trickler's gonna get–”

"Trickler?" Arthur interrupts. "That's who's behind this?" Why does that name sound familiar?

Whole body shaking and teeth gritting, Warrek fights the compulsion to speak. Eventually the words scrape out, hoarse like they've been dragged across his throat. "He works for the one behind it. I don't know that one’s name. Trickler’s the one I get my orders from. He’s the one what’s paying me.”

“Have you proof of this? Some evidence?” Merlin demands.

Though he tries to shake his head, the motion is wrenched into a painful looking nod. “My coin pouch,” he spits, groaning as each word is forced. “A message. He’s signed it.”

Merlin isn’t gentle when he shoves Warrek’s shoulder back and searches for the purse on Warrek’s belt. When he finds it, he yanks it free with a sharp jerk that makes Warrek’s whole body jolt. He loosens the drawstrings and draws out a rolled strip of parchment, much like the one they’d found in Baybridge. Merlin hurries to spread it open and he gives a curt nod. “He’s signed it. Trickler. It’s the order for the wine delivery to go ahead as planned.”

“Where is this Trickler?” Arthur prompts.

Even biting through his own lip doesn’t prevent the words coming out. “Camelot. He’s there, in Camelot. So’s his master.”

Merlin flicks out a hand and Warrek goes abruptly silent. His eyes widen and though he opens his mouth, no sound comes out. Merlin then crosses over to Arthur. “He must belong to one of the kings’ parties. But whose?”

Mercia is right out – they hadn’t even arrived at Camelot before Arthur left and why would Bayard even show up for the treaty discussions if he were plotting for war. He thinks back on the guests lists his father shared, made them run through over long dinners, with meticulous detail.

“Alined!” he exclaims. “I remember now. Trickler is Alined’s manservant. Remember, he’s the weaselly looking fellow who was trying to impress Queen Annis with his juggling?”

Merlin’s eyes widen. “Yes! That was the night that Elena and Vivian were getting along so well, you were able to sit with me at the Knights’ table. I remember Gwaine mocking the juggler and his simpering.” His head jerks back. “_That_ man is the mastermind behind all of this?”

“Well, he’s working for the mastermind. And, as he’s Alined’s manservant…” he lets the suggestion trail off.

“But why? Why try to start a war between the Southern Kingdoms when his own lands would get pulled into the fray?”

It’s the same question Arthur is asking himself. “Maybe,” he begins, feeling out the thought aloud, “he’s taken that into account. Maybe he’s got an ally in mind already?”

He sees Merlin consider it, looking up and to one side. Then he begins slowly nodding. “Right. Right. Odin’s land borders his. If Essetir and Camelot were occupied in a conflict with Mercia–”

“Odin and Alined would be free to overrun Nemeth.” Arthur concludes for him. “Rodor’s got a smaller army and the Saxon’s still hold sway in Kent. Without aid, Rodor’s kingdom would be lost.”

Merlin scowls. “But why would Odin eschew such venom at Nemeth?”

Arthur shakes his head, this time rueful. “It’s not at Nemeth. His ultimate goal will be Camelot, I’m sure.” At Merlin’s quizzical reaction, Arthur explains. “I killed Odin’s son. It was about two years ago. He challenged me to a knight’s duel.”

“Whatever for?”

Shrugging helplessly Arthur can only say, “I wish I knew. Maybe he felt he had to prove himself. I never got an explanation, and even as we stood on opposite each other, I tried to encourage him to withdraw.” It’s a memory he doesn’t like to think on. He’d never wanted, nor even intended to kill the other Prince. He’d parried a clumsy lunge and Odin’s son overextended, nearly falling into Arthur’s sword even as he’d tried to draw it back. “Odin has never forgiven me and now all of Camelot could suffer for it.”

A hand curves over Arthur’s shoulder, giving a firm squeeze. “You can’t blame yourself for this. Not to mention, we’re going to stop this before anything else happens.”

“And how do you propose we do that? Warrek is right, it’s two days hard ride, at best,” he gestures, belatedly remembering their prisoner is tied up and listening to every word. Based on the way he’s looking between the pair of them, he’s figured out who he and Merlin are. “And that’s another problem we’ll have to deal with,” he adds with a significant nod.

To his surprise, Merlin smiles. “All of that is easily remedied. Remember that overlarge friend of mine?”

“Kilghar–” Arthur stops himself. Which is silly, really, because it’s not like Warrek is going to recognize the dragon’s name.

“Right,” Merlin nods. “He can get us back to Camelot much faster.”

“Get us back?”

This time Merlin’s wide smile, pushing into his cheeks and making deep dimples appear, is one of pure mischief, with none of that eerie darkness it held earlier.

The meaning behind the expression comes to Arthur a split second later. “Oh… OH!”

“Yes,” Merlin nods again. Then abruptly stops. The smile twists into a puzzled moue. “Except that I don’t know if he’ll be nearby. I can’t signal him if he’s too far to see it.”

“Can you contact him another way?” Arthur has no idea what Merlin can do with his magic, but everything he’s seen so far has been well beyond the realm of things he ever knew were possible.

Slowly, Merlin begins to bob his head. “Yesss,” he says, drawing out the word with hesitation. “I mean, I think I might have a way to do it. But first.” He looks over his shoulder.

Warrek. Right. They need to do something about him.

Arthur wouldn’t really be fussed at putting a sword through his chest, but… not here, in the cozy little barn at the back of The Woodcock’s Folly. Lil and Martin have been much to gracious to be left dealing with that mess.

He assumes Merlin would agree. “Did you have something in mind?”

Warrek makes a frantic sound, jerking his head closer, trying to catch what their low-voiced words.

“I do,” Merlin says to him, and then he turns to Warrek, snapping his fingers. “And it’s none of your concern. In fact, nothing that happened this evening is any of your concern. You see, you won’t remember any of it.”

Warrek shifts back, swallowing hard. “You’re goin’ to kill me then?” He blinks, seeming surprised to have been given back the use of his voice.

“Oh, no,” Merlin shakes his head, advancing a step towards the man. “No, I’m not going to kill you. But then, there won’t be reason to, as you’re going to forget everything that’s happened tonight.”

“What’ssat mean?”

But Merlin doesn’t answer. Instead he intones the words to another spell. This one feels _different_ to Arthur, older… like there’s more magic in it. If that made any sense. It rolls off Merlin’s tongue in that ancient, guttural language and in a tone so deep Arthur gets the sensation it’s rattling the bones of his chest. When Merlin finishes, and the brilliance fades from his eyes, he staggers back, nearly stumbling.

Arthur’s there to catch him, and steady him though. “You all right?” he asks urgently.

“Fine,” Merlin replies, sounding a bit winded, but otherwise no worse for wear. “It’s just powerful magic. Like the smoke spell yesterday. Takes a bit of time to get my wits back.” His breathy chuckle reassures Arthur nearly as much as his words.

He looks past Merlin then, to Warrek. He’s still bound, but his eyes are closed, and his head is tilted back and mouth slack, like he’s asleep. Arthur watches a moment and sees his chest expand. Whatever Merlin did to him, he’s still alive.

“We should be going,” Merlin suggests. “Why don’t you ready the horses and I’ll pack our gear.”

“What about him?”

“We’ll take him with us.”

Frowning, Arthur questions that statement. “Take him with us?”

Merlin grins, and there still a hint of malicious in it. “Yes. Trust me.”

And Arthur does, so he just nods. “Right then. I’ll get us ready to ride.” He claps Merlin on the shoulder, then propels him a few steps forward. “Give my regards to Lil and Martin.”

The horses are well-rested, and the stable boy did well with their care as their coats have been curried free of sweat and dust and brushed to a sheen. It doesn’t take Arthur long to give them a quick once-over and then get them both saddled and ready to ride.

He isn’t quite sure what Merlin intends with Warrek, but assumes that as they’re bringing him along, he’ll need to be mounted. Much as he’d like to make Warrek jog alongside as they ride, Arthur knows that time is a factor. He studies the unconscious man, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he tries to figure if he can manage to get him into a saddle without Merlin’s help.

Warrek isn’t particularly large, but his deadweight will be difficult to maneuver. After he cuts the ropes at Warrek’s hands and feet, he steps back again, muttering, “I wish Merlin had left you awake, so I could get you to stand up.”

To his shock, Warrek lurches to his feet.

Arthur checks, but the man’s eyes are still closed and although his head flopped forward when he rose, he’s still slumbering.

“Uh,” Arthur tries ordering him again, “walk out of the barn.”

Though his gait is shambling, and he bounces off the wall and a support post, he manages to shuffle out into the night air.

He gives a short, but pleased laugh.

After that, it doesn’t take more than a few minutes to get Warrek on horseback, and Arthur leads both mounts to the front of the Inn. He doesn’t have to wait too long, as Merlin steps out – the sounds of drunken revelry following him until the heavy wooden door closes and mutes it.

“Any trouble?”

Merlin shakes his head. “No, I’ve got our gear and I’ve given our thanks to Lil. Oh, and I let her know she can allow the stable boy to return to his bed.” He looks past Arthur, up to the man on the horse. “Any trouble here?”

“None,” Arthur replies, then he adds, “Although, you might’ve warned me that I could get him to follow my instructions. I thought I’d have to throw my back out trying to get him in that saddle.”

“Oh, right,” Merlin ducks his head, though he looks less chagrinned and more amused. “Sorry. Yeah. He’ll be quite tractable for the next couple of hours.” He hands off Arthur’s satchel and they get their meager belongings packed into saddle bags.

“We’ll be doubling-up then?”

“We won’t be going too far,” Merlin explains after nodding. “Just far enough that Kilgharrah won’t be spotted by anyone when he arrives.”

Hoping he’s not being too presumptuous, Arthur climbs into the saddle and then holds a hand out for Merlin and leaves the stirrup free for him to use.

“Thanks.” Merlin takes his hand and half-hauling himself up, half being hauled up, he manages to get on the horse with little trouble. He settles in behind the cantle, wraps his arms around Arthur’s waist and isn’t shy about leaning close.

Leading the second horse by his reins, Arthur taps his heels to the roan’s flanks and gets him moving. They make their way through the wide, empty streets of Othanden, only passing the occasional townsfolk still out and about – most, likely, heading to or coming from one tavern or another. The guard at the gates cocks a wary eye at Warrek when they pass, but Arthur deflects his curiosity with a, “Can’t hold his drink, that one,” and the guard nods, knowingly, and waves them through.


	16. Chapter 16

Arthur’s rarely ridden double, and usually under circumstances where neither rider was in any shape to do more than hold on and hope to survive the ride. He likes the warmth of Merlin at his back and the feel of Merlin’s arms around him. It’s almost too bad there’s a saddle, as they both can’t fit in the seat and the cantle prevents them getting closer.

He decides that after they get back to Camelot – assuming they make it on time – he’ll have to suggest trying this again, but bareback.

They’re only a few miles from the outskirts of Othanden when Merlin lifts an arm away from him and points. “That clearing, over there. That will do.”

“You sure we’re far enough from witnesses?”

“We’ll have to hope so, as time is becoming a factor.”

Though he doesn’t know why the need to hurry of a sudden, but Arthur draws back on the reins, slowing the gelding from his rolling canter to a jouncy, knee-popping trot. Behind him, Merlin curses and his hands clutch tight at Arthur’s hips.

“Sorry,” Arthur murmurs, urging the horse to slow further, to a much less jostling gait. The light jog carries them off the road several dozen yards and into a wide, grassy glen that’s half surrounded by a sparse copse of alder and juniper, with a thin, trickling steam cutting through the center of it.

They dismount and Merlin advises him to take all the gear they’ll want to keep from the saddles. As he does so, Arthur asks, “Why is that?”

“I’m going to send Warrek and the horses to Whitelake,” Merlin says, not looking up while he’s rummaging through his own saddlebag.

“You’re what?”

It’s a cloudless night, lit by a full-bellied gibbous moon and the bright twinkle of starlight, and he can see Merlin’s expression is set when he finally looks across the saddle. “I’m going to instruct him to go to Whitelake. He’s going to confess what he’s done and the part he played in arranging the attack.”

“They’ll likely kill him,” Arthur states.

Merlin nods, mouth set in a grim line. “I know. But it’s no less than he deserves. And _they_ deserve some sense of justice, meted out by their own hand.”

“Good,” Arthur agrees. He has no sympathy for Warrek or any men like him who show no pity or compassion for innocents. He’s had to send men to die before, and even when the cause was worthy, he’s been wracked with guilt. It’s not something that troubles him now.

“I’ll handle Warrek,” Merlin offers once they’ve emptied the saddles of their gear. He hands Arthur a strange object that catches and reflects the moonlight so brilliantly a moment Arthur has to blink away a bright after-image. “Can you fill that with water?”

It’s a bowl. Much like the soup bowls Lil had used to serve them dinner. “Yes, sure.”

He makes his way through dewy, calf-high grass to the little stream and kneels beside it. He can hear the low timbre of Merlin’s voice as he’s giving instructions to Warrek but can’t make out what he’s saying. Arthur’s got no idea how the magic will work to keep Warrek going in the right direction; although, when he looks up once to see where Merlin’s at, he appears to be whispering to the grey gelding, so perhaps he doesn’t need to worry about that.

Merlin rejoins him a few minutes later and takes a seat on the bank next to him. He takes the brimming bowl from Arthur.

“From Lil?” Arthur asks as he hands it over.

“Yes,” Merlin laughs. “One of those that started the day as simple kiln-fired river clay. She wasn’t too reluctant to part with it, considering just how much of her collection of serve ware has turned to gold or silver.”

Arthur chuckles and feels a warmth flush up his neck, but it’s not embarrassment… not really. He’s just rather tickled they have this charming memory to share. With each other at least; he can’t imagine letting any of the knights get word of such a thing! They’d never let him – or Merlin – live it down.

“So, what’s with the water?” he asks, watching as Merlin settles the bowl on the ground a few inches away from his crossed legs.

“I’m going to try a scrying spell. It’s a way to contact someone over a long distance. I only hope that Gaius isn’t asleep yet.”

“Gaius?”

Merlin nods. “Yes. He keeps a bowl of water in his chambers for this purpose. He and I communicate this way fairly regularly.” He blinks and then frowns sheepishly. “Um, maybe you should forget I said that.”

Rolling his eyes, Arthur scoffs. “I’m not going to out Gaius to my father for practicing magic.” He’d feel a sting at that remark if he didn’t know that Merlin isn’t concerned for Arthur’s opinion, merely that he doesn’t want to cause any risk to Gaius.

“Right, sorry.” His gaze drops to the bowl again. He lifts his hands, holding them on either side of the bowl, several inches above it, palms down.

Arthur watches the water, seeing Merlin’s reflection glow with sudden light as his eyes spark, and then the surface of the liquid starts to swirl. In a few minutes, Arthur realizes he’s looking at an entirely different image; this one showing the distant, dimly lit wooden slats of a ceiling and a plant or flower of some kind hanging in the foreground.

“Gaius?” Merlin calls out.

He’s seeing inside of Gaius’ chambers, Arthur realizes.

“Gaius,” Merlin repeats, a bit louder.

“What’s that? Who’s there?” Gaius’ voice echoes up from the bowl. It’s faint, like he’s some distance away.

“Gaius, it’s me, Merlin.”

There are some odd noises, and some definite grumbling, but after a few minutes Gaius’ face appears in the bowl. It wavers as a breeze stirs the water slightly.

“Merlin, what’s the matter, my boy.” That hollow echo doesn’t fully disappear, and Arthur assumes it’s due to the voice coming out of a bowl.

“I need a favor, and it’s rather urgent,” Merlin explains. He gives Gaius a very abbreviated run-down of the events of the last few days, culminating with, “And, I need my father to summon Kilgharrah and send him here to get us.”

Gaius frets a moment, but finally he nods. “I’ll go and tell him. He was still in the Great Hall with the other Kings when I retired, but that was an hour ago, or more. And perhaps I’ll warn the kitchens as well, not to bring in any deliveries from foreign wagons.”

“Thank you, Gaius! Oh, tell my father that Kilgharrah should fly north, toward Othanden. We’re a few miles south from there. And also ask him to keep an eye out for Lancelot, who’s riding for Camelot.”

“I shall, Merlin.” Gaius’ hand passes over the bowl and the next thing Arthur sees is the surface of the water reflecting moonlight.

“Well, that certainly beats sending couriers or ravens,” Arthur quips.

Merlin empties the bowl, tossing the water back towards the stream, and shakes it out and the dries it with the edge of his tunic. “Oh, certainly. It helps that Gaius keeps a vessel of standing water for me to reach out to. Otherwise, it can be difficult to time things.”

“So, Kilgharrah will find us here?” Arthur gestures to the valley surrounding them.

“Yes,” Merlin nods. “It might take a bit of time. Especially if my father is still at the banquet. I’ll send a signal up in a bit, but I expect we’ll be waiting awhile.”

This could be a good time to revisit the conversation they were having earlier in the Inn, but Arthur doesn't know that he feels up to delving into such heady thoughts right now. Instead, he pulls his cloak out of his pack, shakes it out and spreads it on the damp grass and then holds out a hand to Merlin, inviting him to sit on the blanket. It's Merlin who suggests pulling out the other cloak and some pieces of clothing and fashioning a makeshift cushion so they can lie back and stare at the stars.

They don't talk much, except when Arthur points to clusters of stars and Merlin tells him what they mean and what figures or beings they represent. Now and again, Merlin sends a flickering shape into the night sky as a signal to Kilgharrah. At first, it's a dragon complete with flapping wings, but to make Arthur laugh he next conjures a leaping rabbit and then a galloping horse. Each of the creatures of light and sparking flame climb high into the heavens where they explode into bright, shooting sparkles.

Though it grows cool as the night ebbs on, Arthur’s got Merlin tucked close, his head resting on Arthur’s shoulder and their hands intertwined in the nearly absent gap between their bodies. Even when the cloak loses the battle against the dew and starts to grow damp and chill beneath them, Arthur makes no move to get up. Merlin just comments that he can dry the cloak with magic, if it’s needed.

Of course, it’s when he’s kissing Merlin – sweet, and light and for no other purpose than kissing – that Kilgharrah arrives. His wings are surprisingly silent as they cut through the air, but it’s impossible to ignore the massive shape hovering above them.

“I see certain things have worked themselves out?” he rumbles, clearly amused.

While a voyeuristic dragon isn’t high on Arthur’s list of people – or creatures – he wants to get caught out by, he’s still slow to pull away from Merlin’s soft, wet lips.

“Things are as they should be,” Merlin remarks, rather cryptically, even as Arthur gets to his feet and hauls Merlin up after him. “And, thank you for coming, my friend.”

“Of course,” Kilgharrah lowers his head. “Your father remarked upon the urgency.”

“Yes,” Merlin agrees. “I don’t suppose you happened to spy my knight or horse on your journey here?”

“I did indeed, young warlock.”

Arthur – who’d busied himself repacking the cloaks – turns to Merlin. “Why do you ask?”

“I thought it best if we could ride to Camelot with Lancelot and Leon. Otherwise, we’ll have no good way to explain how we got to Camelot so quickly, and with no horses to boot.”

It makes perfect sense once Merlin explains, and Arthur feels a bit daft for not thinking of it himself. “Uh, speaking of. How are we getting to where Lancelot and Leon are?” It’s likely another stupid question, but Arthur doesn’t want to wrongly assume anything.

In answer, Merlin waves an arm toward Kilgharrah. “Your mount, Sir Arthur.”

It’s exactly what Arthur hoped for… or perhaps feared. Riding a dragon had been one of those little-boy fantasies; one he’d never expected to become reality. He’s both elated and slightly terrified.

“I’ll have to follow your lead, Sir Merlin.” He gestures for Merlin to go first.

Kilgharrah shakes his head and mutters something that’s most certainly unflattering about knights, but he lowers his head and stretches out his neck. Merlin shows him how to use Kilgharrah’s knee like a mounting block, and he climbs on first, settling in between the peaks of the dragon’s spine, just behind his head. Arthur follows gingerly.

“You can’t hurt me,” Kilgharrah advises. “A small weight like you is no trouble.”

“Right.” Arthur swings a leg over, like he would a horse, and finds that settling in behind Merlin – one of the prominent spine scales between them – feels much more secure than he’d expected.

“Hold on, like this,” Merlin cautions, and he leans to the side so that Arthur can see how he’s gripping tight to the peaked scale.

“I thought we’d ride closer to his shoulders,” Arthur comments, but he follows suit and takes a firm hold of the rough protrusion. “Won’t this throw off his balance?”

“He can hear you, young Pendragon,” Kilgharrah says with amusement. “And no, you’ll have little effect on me. Have no fear.”

Looking over his shoulder, Merlin smiles. “If we had a harness, the shoulders would be better. But the ridge scales start smoothing out there and it’s hard to hold on. So, it’s safer up here without one.”

Arthur just nods, although he’s already imagining what a harness on a dragon might be like. Would it have a saddle? Would a passenger be secure enough to wield a sword? Or, even a crossbow?

His rather fanciful thoughts are chased away when Kilgharrah says, “Hold tight.” Arthur can feel the muscles beneath him going tense, even through the thick, armorlike scales. Then there’s a rush of air, and the booming flap of wings, and Kilgharrah launches into the air.

For the first few seconds, Arthur clings desperately and squeezes his eyes shut as the dragon’s neck undulates and he’s rocked back and forth with every powerful wingbeat to get him higher and higher into the sky. Then Kilgharrah gets into a rhythm and the ride smooths out, and Arthur opens his eyes.

It’s… amazing. Like nothing he’s ever imagined. The air is cutting, and chill and it stings his eyes, but Arthur doesn’t even want to blink. The whole of Camelot is laid out beneath them, beautiful and sprawling even in the darkness, and they’re going faster than he’d ever imagined possible.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Merlin shouts, the laughter in his voice strong enough to be heard even over the sharply whistling wind.

“Yeah!” Arthur hollers back, letting out a loud, joyous whoop as well.

He’s not sure how long they’re in the air but eventually he spies faint, glittery little lights in the distance. It’s still leagues away, but Arthur knows it’s Camelot. He wishes they could fly over, and he could see his city and the keep and his home from above… 

Maybe someday.

It’s not too much later he realizes they’re descending. He’d let his hold loosen (and may have held his arms out to feel the utterly amazing sensation of freedom, at Merlin’s encouragement) so he takes a tighter grip of the spinal ridge, but this time isn’t shy about leaning over to look down as they near the ground.

Kilgharrah lands smoothly, touching down with his rear legs first and then slowly lowering his front to earth. There’s none of the jarring that Arthur expected. He’s landed jumps on horseback that have unsettled him more in his seat.

He’s surprised to find that his arms are stiff, and his fingers ache when he finally lets go. In front of him Merlin is also shaking his arms out.

“It’s the cold,” Merlin explains, adding a cautionary, “You might be a bit wobbly when you climb down as well.”

“I’ll be careful.” And he is, but it’s further to the ground than Arthur realizes and it’s only because Kilgharrah’s got a foreleg extended, claws embedded into the soil, that he doesn’t fall on his arse. Merlin’s dismount is slightly more graceful.

“I’ve had practice,” Merlin winks. Although they’re both a bit unsteady as they walk to the dragon’s head.

“Your friends are just ahead, through those trees,” Kilgharrah tells them. 

Merlin pats the dragon on the muzzle. “Thank you, Kilgharrah.”

Feeling a bit bold, Arthur copies him. “Yes, thank you. We’re in your debt, Kilgharrah.”

That makes Kilgharrah chuckle in that low, gravelly way. “I shall remember that, Arthur. The debt of a Pendragon isn’t something to be taken lightly.” His bilious eyes are nearly glowing, and his lip is curled up, exposing fangs.

It takes Arthur a moment to realize he’s being teased. “It certainly is,” he replies and is pleased when one of those golden eyes squeezes shut in a wink.

He’s in the good graces of a dragon; his father would go apoplectic if he knew.

“Merlin?” A voice calls out.

“Lancelot?”

Looking toward the trees, Arthur can see two figures approaching. Though they’re just shadows against the darker backdrop of foliage, he recognizes Leon’s silhouette.

“I wondered why I saw Kilgharrah overhead,” Lancelot says. “Is Arthur with you?”

Realizing he must be obscured by Kilgharrah’s wagon-sized head, Arthur steps to the side and waves. “Leon, Lancelot. Good to see you.”

Before they can make any explanations, Kilgharrah interrupts. “I shall leave you to your business now, young warlock. Farewell.”

“Goodbye, Kilgharrah.”

“Thank you again,” Arthur adds. He watches Kilgharrah push up and tries not to blink as the harsh slap of his wings kicks up dust and he launches himself upward. Just watching him lift off, Arthur’s already aching to be upon his back once again.

“Got to ride him, didn’t you?” Lancelot says, mirthful.

Arthur blinks and realizes he’s been staring up after the departing dragon for longer than he meant too. Kilgharrah is already little more than a dark figure in the distance. Leon and Lancelot, however, are standing only a few feet away.

Sheepishly, Arthur nods. “I did.”

Lancelot nods. “I remember the first time I did.”

“Is riding dragons so commonplace in Ealdor?” Leon asks, his tone both amused and faintly envious.

Merlin answers. “Not really. But, it’s not uncommon, either.” He hurries on. “But we’ll put that aside. We’ve got to get back to Camelot, right away.”

Leon and Lancelot are immediately focused, and they lead the way back to their campsite while Merlin and Arthur take turns filling them in on everything the learned. 

“Are the horses rested enough?” Arthur asks once they reach the small clearing where Leon and Lancelot have their bedrolls laid out on either side of a banked fire. He crosses to where the horses are picketed and strokes the back of his knuckles down Virtue’s broad face.

Leon nods. “They’ve had a few hours, and we walked them the last few miles into dusk. You mean to leave right now?”

“I do. We can keep an easy pace while it’s still dark, and then speed up once we’ve got the sun. That should get us to Camelot early enough.” He frowns. “Though I do hope Gaius also got the word to the kitchens about that wagon. They unload deliveries first thing.”

Sunrise is a riotous display of brilliant color; hues of crimson, persimmon and sunflower yellow paint the horizon beneath scattered, wispy clouds that gradiate deep purple to palest saffron as they chase further into the brightening, robin’s egg blue overhead. It finds Arthur – Merlin and Leon and Lancelot only a length behind – just passing the main gate into the lower town. He slows Virtue to a trot but urges the townsfolk already up and about to clear the way.

He halts finally, just in the lane outside the royal stables. The stableman, Tyr Seward, hurries out to take Virtue’s reins.

“I’ve got him for you, my lord.”

“Thank you, Tyr,” Arthur says, already dismounting. “There are three more incoming.” Which is rather redundant to say, as they’re preceded by the clatter of shod hooves on cobbles. “They’ll need cooling out, and a good rub down after. I’m afraid we pushed them harder than I’d have liked.”

“Of course, my lord,” Tyr nods dutifully and holds his tongue. Another knight or noble returning horses that are lathered and blowing, and Tyr would be chastising them. And rightfully so. “They’ll be well looked after.”

He claps Tyr on the shoulder. “I know they will. And, if you could have our gear returned to our rooms,” he adds, although he’s already turning away to meet the others as they crowd into the lane.

“Certainly, my lord.”

A young groom races past Arthur, taking Patience’s reins, and Arthur grabs hold of Merlin’s arm as soon as he’s out of the saddle. “Leon, Lancelot,” he orders, “take some guards and bring King Alined’s manservant to the council chamber. Come on, Merlin!” He all but drags Merlin after him.

They race through the halls, dodging servants and calling out reassurances to guards – who startle and then challenge the shabbily armored princes – and they skid to a stop outside the council chambers’ double-doors. From inside, the sounds of raised voices and an anxious clamor can be heard.

He and Merlin exchange a similar look of concern: are they too late?

They push the doors wide and stride into a room that has erupted in chaos. It’s difficult to make heads or tails of what’s going on, but Arthur notices that there are wagging fingers and dark looks being directed toward one man in particular. As he’s someone Arthur doesn’t recognize, and wearing a crown like the other kings, Arthur can easily conclude that he’s looking at King Bayard of Mercia. He’s never met the man in person, but he can see his son’s likeness around the man’s eyes.

“Stop this!” Arthur shouts, to be heard over the din.

“Arthur!” Uther turns away from a glaring argument with King Rodor, eyes widening. “You’ve returned. What news do you bring?”

Around him, heads turn and voices trail to silence and in just a few seconds Arthur has eight of the most powerful men in the Southern Kingdoms staring at him.

Uther may be expecting a report, but Arthur’s got a question first. “What goes on here?”

Whether it’s his commanding tone or just the fact that Uther is his father, the other kings defer to Uther to explain. “A boy in the kitchens has been found dead. He failed to rouse for morning’s baking and when Cook discovered the body, she found that he’d helped himself to a flagon of wine. Wine that clearly had been poisoned.” Here he shoots a dark look at Bayard. “Wine delivered from Mercia!”

Again, hands fall to swords and accusations are flung out. Bayard appears defiant, but Arthur can see that he’s taken a few steps back from the rising aggressions.

“It wasn’t Mercia,” Arthur hurries to explain. He has to repeat himself to be heard over the din. “Hear me! Mercia is not responsible for the wine!”

“What’s this?” Uther asks. “How do you know this? Have you some proof?”

Normally Arthur would share Uther’s views – his instincts would be to pin the blame on Mercia as well – but right now he wishes his father wasn’t so pigheaded. “Yes, I can explain everything. Prince Merlin and I have discovered the identity of the person who was behind the poisoned wine.” He shifts a quick glance to King Alined, who is scowling.

“And the attacks on Whitelake and Baybridge,” Merlin adds.

“Baybridge as well?” Balinor asks.

Arthur knows that’s well-feigned surprise from Merlin’s father. He already knows much of what they do, thanks to Kilgharrah.

“Yes,” Merlin confirms. “Baybridge was razed. No one survived.” 

“Well who is responsible for this?” Uther demands.

“It was –”

A loud commotion coming from the halls interrupts before Arthur can share what he knows. He turns back to the open doors, stepping aside as Leon and Lancelot follow a pair of guards who’re shoving a protesting Trickler between them.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Alined demands. “Why do you have my manservant in custody?”

“Arthur, explain yourself.”

“Trickler is the man behind this,” Arthur tells the room.

“Lies!” Trickler whines. He jerks toward his master, as if he’s expecting to be released. But the guards hold firm.

“Preposterous,” Alined barks out.

Uther’s eyes narrow shrewdly as he looks between the King and his manservant. “Arthur,” he begins, voice deceptively calm, “I assume you have proof of this accusation?”

“I do, father.” He takes the scrap of parchment from his belt pouch. “It’s a missive, signed by Trickler. It was sent to a man named Warrek, instructing him to carryout having the tainted wine delivered to Camelot.”

The room explodes into outrage once again, although this time the accusations and glares are fixed on Alined. Arthur steps forward to hand the paper over to Uther. Alined tries to grab for it, saying, “Give me that.” When Arthur jerks it away from his grasping fingers, Alined curses.

Uther takes the scrap and unrolls it showily. The room falls silent again as he reads. When he looks up again, he says, “King Alined, have you any explanation for this?”

Glowering, Alined is quick to retort, “I know nothing of this.” He steps away from Trickler and shakes his head at him. He feigns disappointment well. “If my manservant is involved in actions against Camelot, I can only apologize for my ignorance and for bringing his traitorous presence to your kingdom.”

“What?” Trickler gasps. “You… you lie! I only did as you ordered, my lord. I have done everything you have asked of me.” His earlier defiance has been replaced with terror.

“Take him to the dungeons,” Uther orders.

Gibbering, Trickler struggles frantically against the guards holding tight to each arm. When that has no effect, he goes strangely still. He turns to Arthur, even as his heels drag the floor, and he opens his mouth to speak.

“Arthur!” Merlin shouts, and before Arthur knows what’s happened, he’s on the floor, Merlin sprawled atop him.

“Magic!” Uther spits, like the word is a curse.

Arthur cranes his neck to see what’s going on and finds that Trickler is slumped unconscious between the guards. Behind him, Leon’s got a sword in his hand, hilt forward. On the wall, directly in the path where Arthur’s head had been, is a blackened scorch mark.

“Take him away, see that he’s gagged and bind him with caution,” Uther orders, then spins on Alined. “This is doubly a betrayal, Alined,” Uther points an accusatory finger toward the other king. “Not only a traitor, but a magic user as well. You have betrayed the tenets of the treaty.”

This time, Alined appears quite concerned. He holds up his hands, placating. “I knew nothing of this, King Uther, I assure you.” He looks from one king to the next, imploring to each of them. “I swear to you, this is as much a shock to me as it is to you. I’d never have knowingly brought a sorcerer to Camelot.”

Uther snorts, but presses his lips tight.

Merlin’s still laying across Arthur’s body, and he can feel the way Merlin goes allover tense at the exchange. He sneaks a hand between them, seeking Merlin’s and gives a squeeze. Merlin eyes him, gaze softening, and he responds with the barest nods. He shuffles off Arthur then, and helps him to his feet.

“Prince Merlin,” Uther turns his attention away from Alined.

“King Uther,” Merlin inclines his head.

“You have my sincerest thanks. Your quick-thinking saved my son from that heinous attack.” He looks over to Balinor. “Your sons favors you, Balinor, in bravery and honor. In other circumstances, he’d be due a place in my court or some other reward…” he spreads his hands, inviting suggestion.

“I’m sure your thanks is reward enough,” Balinor replies, though there’s a grin playing at his lips.

“Yes, my lord,” Merlin agrees. “It’s nothing less than Prince Arthur would’ve done for me.”

“Very true, father,” Arthur agrees. It’s difficult not to elbow Merlin conspiratorially. “Though, I would ask a boon.”

“What’s that, my son?”

Arthur gestures from himself to Merlin. “We rode through the night to bring this news. I don’t suppose Prince Merlin and I could be spared from banquet tonight?”

Uther blinks, looking vaguely scandalized a moment, but Balinor starts to chuckle and soon all the assembled kings are smiling or laughing; even Uther. “Very well, Arthur. You and Prince Merlin have earned yourself a reprieve. We are all grateful for your service to the Southern Kingdoms.”

The words are echoed by everyone; Alined even adds a reluctant sounding, “Oh, yes. Such dutiful sons you both are.”

Though he gives a quick bow in parting, Arthur is quick to leave the council chamber. He waits until they’re out in the hallway, doors closed behind the, before taking hold of Merlin’s sleeve and dragging him down the hall again.

“Now where are we going?” Merlin asks, though he sounds quite amused.

“Well, we’re going to get some sleep, and maybe a bath –”

Merlin lets out a noisy snort.

“Not together,” Arthur clarifies. Although he’d like nothing more than to do just that. “Well, probably not. But first, there’s an introduction I need to make.”

“You mean?”

Arthur nods fervently.

“Well then,” Merlin enthuses, “lead the way.”


	17. Chapter 17

Arthur knocks softly at the door, a quick tap-tap, before he opens it a crack. He peeks in, looking first toward the bed -which lies empty and already made up – and then toward the window. His mother is in her chair, awake and – much to his delight – smiling at seeing him.

“Come on,” he says softly, and then goes inside. He hurries to his mother’s side, leaning in to give her a quick, one-armed hug and a kiss on the brow.

Her nose wrinkles.

“Sorry!” Arthur laughs. “Yes, it’s been a hectic few days and I’m overdue for a bath. I know, I should’ve done that before coming to see you, but I didn’t want to wait. Mother, there’s someone I want you to meet.” He steps aside and Merlin comes forward.

Merlin gives a low, courtly bow and then goes to a knee and takes up Ygraine’s hand and presses a light kiss to the back of it.

“Mother, may I present Prince Merlin of Essetir.” He can’t help the way his voice sings with pride.

“It’s an honor to meet you, Queen Ygraine,” Merlin says.

Before he can let go of her hand, Arthur can see that she’s squeezing Merlin’s. Her cornflower pale eyes are bright and shining and her smile is the widest he’s seen in days.

Arthur reaches out, covering their joined hands with his. He’s buoyed with joy. “I think she’s pleased to meet you,” he says in a soft aside to Merlin.

“Mh hmm,” Ygraine manages the affirmative hum.

“I’m very pleased to meet her, as well,” Merlin replies, his voice pitched low like Arthur’s had been, but he winks at Ygraine.

Holding the knot of their three hands for a long moment, Arthur finds himself needing to open up to her. At the back of his mind are all the truths that he learned three nights ago, but… he’s got no wish to sully this meeting with airing grievances. He settles for a different truth instead. “Mother, you won’t believe it. I got to fly.”

Her eyes shift in his direction, brows dipping inward over the bridge of her nose.

“On a dragon,” he says, answering her unspoken question.

Those eyes go wide, and her mouth falls open slightly.

“Yes,” he nods eagerly. “We had to get back to Camelot urgently and we were all the way in Othanden.”

She’s still staring at him with something like alarm.

“Oh!” The source of her concern becomes clear when her gaze shifts to Merlin and then back to him. “Yes, I know all about him. And about King Balinor. And the magic. Oh, and Kilgharrah the dragon, of course.”

Though her expression softens, there’s still something wary in the lines around her eyes.

Merlin must sense what’s brewing, because he gives her hand one last squeeze and then gets to his feet. “I’ll just give you a moment.”

“But –” Arthur starts to protest. He’s not ready for this conversation.

Thumbing over his shoulder, Merlin says, “I’m not leaving. I’ll just be over there. Just a few minutes,” he says, clearly promising to rescue Arthur if things go wrong.

“Right, uh. Thank you, Merlin.” He watches as Merlin crosses to the other side of the spacious bedroom – far enough that his words won’t carry if he keeps his voice low – and studies various trinkets and objects that Ygraine has collected over the years. Many of them are there courtesy of Arthur.

He watches Merlin’s back a long moment until his mother lets out a low, breathy sound; impatient.

“Sorry,” he ducks his chin like she issued him a tongue lashing. “It’s just… it’s been a wonderful day. Merlin and I, with our best knights, we saved the treaty talks, uncovering a traitor.” He chuckles. “And father has given me the night off from another stuffy banquet in thanks.”

Ygraine’s pale lips thin and spread in a fond grin. Still, there’s something expectant in her posture and that knowing light in her eyes.

“Right,” he nods. “Yes,” he says it simply. “Yes, I learned the truth.”

Her eyes flit over to Merlin and Arthur shakes his head. “Not from him. Well, not all of it. He only filled in the gaps after the dragon, Kilgharrah, gave me the truth of it.” He wraps his other hand around hers, holding them gently though he wants to cling tight. “I wish you’d told me. I wish I’d known… I feel.” He shrugs. That’s a question he still hasn’t answered “Well, I’ll be honest; I haven’t really had the chance to think about how I feel. There’s been so much chaos these last few days. I don’t think I’m ready to talk about it. Is that okay?”

She blinks, and it’s the equivalent of a patient nod.

“And…”

There’s another confession he wants to make. One that feels more significant right now. He looks over at Merlin again, who’s got a wooden dragon in his hands; he’s turning it over and studying it curiously. It had been a favorite toy in Arthur’s boyhood – likely the source of his fascination with dragons – and his mother had kept it for sentimental reasons.

When he turns back to his mother, her eyes are knowing again, but this time in an entirely different way. She inclines her head, just a fraction, towards Merlin. There’s a question in the gesture.

“Yes,” Arthur exhales sharply, the admission more difficult than he expected. “Yes, he and I…” Well, he doesn’t know quite how to describe that either.

But it doesn’t look like he needs to. His mother’s cheeks have pinked, and she looks both delightfully pleased and… satisfied?

“It doesn’t bother you?” he asks, and her diminutive headshake is immediate for all that it’s brief. “Father will… well, you know how father will react.”

The smile and joy dim. She does know.

Arthur gives a slight shrug. “I’m not going to worry about him now,” he says firmly. “Let him get through the treaty. Hopefully,” he adds with a wry smirk, “without deciding that my marriage to a suitable princess needs to be part of it.”

Ygraine’s mouth purses, and her eyes go flinty. He can hear the ‘not if he values his manhood’ in all but words.

“Thank you, mother.” He leans in and kisses her cheek. She tilts her head into it, pressing against him gently.

Standing, Arthur’s about to invite Merlin back over when there’s a tapping at the door. Just as he’d done, the person knocking waits a beat and then opens it to peek in.

“Come in,” Arthur calls, seeing Gwen’s familiar curls.

“Oh, Arthur.” She steps in the room carrying a tray, and then rocks to a halt at spotting Merlin. She blinks and looks between he and Arthur in confusion. “Oh, hello. Good morning, Merlin.”

“Good morning, Gwen,” Merlin replies cheerily.

“I thought it was time that Merlin met my mother,” Arthur says, answering the unasked question.

“Oh,” Gwen repeats and she must realize she’s parroting herself because she giggles. “Yes, I see that.” She lifts the tray. “Well, I’ve brought your mother’s breakfast. Would you like me to fetch down to the kitchens so you both can join her?”

Arthur looks over at his mother. She’s still wearing that pleased smile, but one eyebrow is up. “Um, I don’t think so, Gwen. Though I appreciate the offer. Merlin and I are both in need of baths, if my mother’s wrinkling nose is any indication.”

“And then some rest,” Merlin adds. “We’ve not slept in a day?” he looks to Arthur.

“Day and a half,” Arthur corrects, but then he recalls exactly what he and Merlin were doing just before they last napped during the afternoon, and his face goes hot. “Or there about,” he adds and shrugs loosely.

“Right,” Gwen says, shrewdly. She looks between the two of them again. “Well, I’ll see to your mother, then. You two go see about those baths.”

“Yes, right. Goodbye, Mother,” he calls out.

“It was lovely to finally meet you,” Merlin adds.

Ygraine’s eyes squeeze shut a moment; a pleased response.

“Guinevere,” Arthur says, brushing past her. The door is too far away. Arthur hurries over to it and just knows that Gwen has that speculative eye on him the whole way. He lets Merlin precede him and just before he closes it, he turns back to the room.

“Oh, Guinevere, Lancelot is back, by the way,” he states, tone utterly guileless.

He closes the door on Gwen’s flushing cheeks, and his mother’s rising eyebrow.

In the corridor – and away from the door to Ygraine’s room – Arthur whispers a soft, “Thank you for that.”

Merlin grins. “Of course. I’m honored you wanted me to meet her.”

“Um, I may have told her about us.”

Though his eyes widen, Merlin just nods. “Good. That’s good. I’m sure she wants you to be happy.”

Glad they’re alone so no one can see his sappy smile, Arthur nods. “She does. And speaking of happy, though I’d love nothing more than to have you join me in the bath…”

“I know,” Merlin agrees. “I’m exhausted as well. We could both use some rest.” He bites at his lower lip.

Arthur’s not sure if he’s doing it on purpose, or if he just doesn’t realize how tantalizing it is.

“Dinner,” Arthur prompts, “tonight. In my chambers.”

“I’d like that.”

“Good.”

They stare at each other a few overlong moments, and Arthur’s contemplating sneaking a kiss, when the clatter of a nearby door jars them both out of the moment.

“Right, I’ll just… I’m off to…” Arthur points vaguely down the hall.

“Yes, me too.” Merlin’s equally flustered, although he’s wearing a teasing smirk as well. “Tonight, then.”

“Yes,” Arthur agrees, vehemently. “Tonight.”

“Will there be anything else, my lord?”

Arthur turns away from his contemplation at the window. Normally he finds solace in looking over the wide courtyard below and the city beyond, but tonight his nerves are jangling and the only thing he can focus on is the position of the rising moon in the spreading dusk.

“No, George, that will be all.”

“Of course, my lord.”

Spinning on a heel, Arthur barks out, “Wait, one thing.”

Ever eager to serve, George stops by the doorway. “Yes, sire?”

“Just, one thing. I’ve had a very long day and I’m going to retire early. Can you pass the message to the rest of the staff that I’m not to be disturbed?”

He doesn’t care how George will interpret that. The one good thing about the man is that he keeps his judgements firmly to himself and considers himself above idle gossip. “Certainly, sire.”

“Thank you. Goodnight, George.”

Of all things, that gives George pause. “Uh, goodnight, my lord.” His narrowed eyes and peculiar expression last only a half a heartbeat before he’s bowing officiously and then closing the door behind him.

Arthur resumes his position at the window. The moon still hangs just a finger’s span above the distant trees and though there are stars starting to twinkle in the darkening cerulean, it’s no later than his last glance, minutes ago. With an aggravated growl, Arthur turns and stalks across his room. It’s tidy – thanks to George’s efficiency – and there’s nothing to distract him. His armor is all polished and stacked on a low chest, with no need to redo the effort. He contemplates changing his clothes… again. He’s already switched tunics twice – settling on comfortable, billowy white with corded lacing at the neck, that he’s left deliberately loose – and debated whether or not to keep his boots on.

Merlin will likely be wearing shoes. He wants them on even ground, so he’s opted to leave them on, for now.

The bedcovers are turned down, readied by George, and Arthur’s made a few additions to the cupboard at the side of his bed. He’s only got the oil that’s used on armor, but he’s heard the knights talking and knows it’s suitable for… certain activities. He’d contemplated going to Gaius and asking for some kind of salve but couldn’t think of an excuse as to why he might need it.

He hopes Merlin won’t mind.

He also hopes he’s not be utterly presumptuous.

“Damn,” he curses softly. He should’ve asked Merlin for something more concrete than ‘tonight’. Perhaps Merlin eats late? Certainly, the feasts have all run well into the evening hours.

“Damn,” he swears again, this time because he’s made a realization; there’s no food in the room.

He entirely forgot about their dinner.

It’s too late to catch George, but Arthur still strides over to the door and yanks it open, ready to call his manservant’s name.

“Geo–”

Merlin is in the hallway, his arm up and knuckles poised to knock.

“Oh! Merlin!”

“Uh, is this all right? Am I early?” He looks as anxious as Arthur feels.

“No, I mean yes. This is perfect. Come in.” He steps back and waves Merlin into his room.

“Right, good. It’s just you opened the door and looked rather upset.”

Closing the door behind Merlin, Arthur slumps against it. “Er, I was going to call for George. Um, I may have forgotten to have dinner brought here.”

“Oh!” Merlin grins brightly. Which is not the reaction Arthur was expecting. “I forgot about dinner as well, and my father came by to check on me and, well, we shared a meal.” He huffs out a laugh. “I was worried I’d have to force down another.”

It’s ridiculous and so perfectly ‘them’ that Arthur can’t help laughing deeply. “Well, then I won’t feel guilty forgetting and appearing as a terrible host.”

“But aren’t you hungry?” Merlin asks, looking concerned.

Arthur shakes his head. “I honestly don’t think I could’ve eaten, even if I’d remembered to request a meal.” He takes a step toward Merlin, reaching out slowly, making sure of his welcome.

Merlin meets him halfway, stepping into his arms.

If Arthur’d been slightly worried that the heat and passion between them only seemed so scorching and so fervent because things were new, and they were so far removed from their daily lives, he needn’t have. _If_ he’d have worried…

Because this kiss feels like the very first, except hotter and deeper and so much more unrestrained. He gets his fingers into Merlin’s hair and his tongue in Merlin’s mouth and feels hands gripping tight at his waist and his hip. They stumble back, Arthur bouncing off the door and his laugh is a breath that barely slips between them.

“Wait,” Merlin mumbles, biting at Arthur’s lip even as he’s trying to pause. “The door, let me…”

“I locked it,” Arthur hurries to reassure him, speaking the words into the soft line of Merlin’s throat. Sinew goes taut beneath his lips as Merlin throws his head back.

“There’s a spell,” Merlin manages, though the words get tangled on a moan. “Let me…”

Nipping the ridiculously inviting curve of Merlin’s collar bone, Arthur mutters, “Not stopping you.”

Merlin chuffs out a laugh. “Yes, well. If I tell you this magic will dampen all the sound in the room, will that get your teeth off my neck long enough for me to concentrate?” Though the words are chiding, his tone is anything but.

Arthur rears back. “Really?” His room is at the end of a corridor, and Morgana’s – across the hall -stands empty, but there are other guest chambers not too far away and he’d been vaguely concerned about the noise.

The grin that spreads across Merlin’s kiss-bruised lips is wicked with promise. “Oh yes.”

“Then, I shall endeavor to leave off my devouring of your throat.” Arthur gives a playfully formal nod and takes a step sideways, letting Merlin have access to the door.

He watches, rapt, as Merlin’s eyes flare and swirl with lambent hues of smelted gold.

“Gods,” he murmurs, unable to resist tracing a finger down Merlin’s cheek, marveling at the aureate glow limning his fingertip. “I’ll never tire of seeing that.”

He feels Merlin’s blush, as the skin he’s delicately tracing over flares with ruddy heat.

Then Merlin turns that radiant gaze on him, and he lets out a soft gasp. This close, he would swear he can see flickering stars and dancing flames and the whole of his destiny in those serous, golden whorls. The light fades slowly, and Arthur finds himself just as entranced by the stormy blue left behind.

“Take me to bed,” he breathes.

Overlong lashes flit down as Merlin blinks, coyly. “Oh, I shall.” He grabs Arthur by the gaping lapels of his tunic. “But first, I think you need to get undressed. You’re wearing far too many clothes.” He yanks Arthur into a fierce, messy kiss, rucking up handfuls of billowy shirt while he chases Arthur’s tongue with his own.

Pulling away with a gasp when Merlin tugs his tunic over his head, the action separating them, Arthur retorts, “Oh, I am?” in the same softly teasing tone. “Well, so are you. I think we should do something to remedy that as well.” He reaches out for the hem of Merlin’s simple, red linen but Merlin’s fingers are there before he can grasp it.

In a swift move, Merlin crosses his arms and yanks it overhead and then tosses it to the floor. “Better?” he asks.

Suddenly dry-mouthed, Arthur can only nod. Tousle-haired and bare-chested, Merlin is lithe and fey and beguiling, and Arthur has to kiss him again lest he start sharing those embarrassingly poetic thoughts aloud. He walks them back to the bed, backward, until the backs of his thighs hit the edge of the tall mattress. Merlin keeps going though, pushing Arthur back until he’s sprawled out on the crimson duvet with Merlin curled over him.

“I like you, like this,” Arthur admits. “Pressing me down into the bed.”

“Oh, I’ll be doing more than pressing you down into it,” Merlin promises, leering.

Arthur rolls his eyes; he’ll admit to enjoying being manhandled, but he’s not going to give Merlin the satisfaction of falling for his terrible effort at sultry lines.

He almost immediately regrets that decision when Merlin stands up. “Wait, where are you –”

“Boots,” Merlin explains, and he demonstrates, yanking off his own and then kneeling to tug Arthur’s one at a time. Arthur has to prop himself up on his elbows to watch. Much as he likes Merlin leading things right now, he also knows he’ll be eager for the opportunity to change things up soon enough. Merlin kneeling at his feet sends all kinds of perverse thoughts running through his head.

“Trousers, while you’re up?” Arthur suggests, playfully innocent. “Mine too?”

“You’re lucky I want you naked,” Merlin grumbles.

“I am?”

“Oh yes,” Merlin’s voice drops an octave, rumbling out low like it does when he’s speaking archaic words of magic. “And if I didn’t have other plans for you, I’d roll you over right now and shove your breeches just below your arsecheeks and take you as you are.”

Arthur falls back into the bedding, squeezing his eyes shut as his heart lurches. “Oh, dear gods, Merlin.”

There’s a tug at his waistband and Arthur feels both trousers and smallclothes being pulled slowly down. “You like that idea,” Merlin teases, running the flat of his palm over the place where Arthur’s pants have gotten caught up, dragging at his already stiff cock.

Arthur flinches and whimpers, though neither of those reactions are from pain. It’s just too much sensation. “I do,” he confesses, after Merlin presses harder and then gives his bollocks a squeeze that’s just shy of uncomfortable, through the bunched-up layers.

“Another time,” Merlin agrees. “But, as I said, I have other plans for you tonight, Pendragon.” He finishes undressing Arthur and there’s the sound of clothing landing on the floor with a ‘whup’.

When Merlin next puts his hands on Arthur’s skin, it’s to trace lightly over the tops of this thighs, a palm skimming over each. They pause at the juncture of his hips, splaying wide and pressing down. “And another time, I’ll take you like this, with your bottom just about hanging off the bed and your legs up over my shoulders.”

Arthur exhales sharply, an explosive curse and an agonized groan both caught up in the sound. Weakly, he suggests, “You could do that now, you know.”

This time Merlin bites off a low noise. “Don’t tempt me. For the third time: I have plans for you, Arthur.”

“Uh, and what would those plans be?”

Merlin laughs breathily. “You’ll find out soon enough. But right now, I need you in the middle of the bed.” He lifts his hands from Arthur’s thighs and steps back.

Bemoaning the loss, Arthur reluctantly sidles and shimmies his hips until he’s positioned vaguely in the center of the bed, with his head propped by pillows. “Is this better?” He frowns at the way Merlin is shaking his head, though the smirk somewhat belies the motion. “What?”

“Nothing,” Merlin says, but he acquiesces almost immediately. “It’s just, I thought you’d get up, or maybe knee walk to the middle. I wasn’t expecting that rather enticing display of your flexibility.”

“There are other ways I could display my flexibility,” Arthur suggests, waggling his eyebrows salaciously.

With a noisy snort, Merlin climbs onto the bed. “Let’s add that to the ‘next time’ list.” He crawls over to Arthur and hovers above him, knees on either side of Arthur’s thighs and hands pressed into the pillows beside Arthur’s head.

“That list is certainly growing.” Arthur arches up off the bed to kiss him, and when he falls back into the cushions, Merlin follows him down.

They kiss lazily for a while, but Arthur can only keep his hands still for so long. His cock is still plumped to half-mast, and just grazing Merlin’s skin with the pads of his fingers causes it to stiffen further. As Merlin drops lower, his kisses getting deeper, his body dips tantalizingly close; Arthur can’t help canting his hips up to find friction.

“Uh uhn,” Merlin chides, the negation a hot breath against Arthur’s lips. “None of that now.”

Arthur lets out a petulant whine.

“You’re going to have to trust me on this.”

“I do,” Arthur says immediately.

“Good,” Merlin grins. “Now, just lie back.” He shifts his position slightly, moving from caging Arthur’s body with his, to kneeling at his side.

“What’s this?” Arthur asks, feeling something cold bumping against his hip. He reaches down and grapples for it, finding a small corked jar.

“Salve,” Merlin says.

For some strange reason, that makes a flush spring up on Arthur’s skin. “Oh, good. I had some oil, but…”

“Oil?” Merlin asks. “What kind?”

“Uh, the kind that’s used for polishing armor.”

Merlin snorts with amusement. “Knights. Thick. The lot of you.”

“Well, what’s so special about your salve?”

“Other than the fact that it’s got a soothing, cooling effect and it rather tingles, nothing at all.”

“Tingles, huh?” Arthur lifts a brow.

“Tingles,” Merlin repeats, dragging the word out like a caress.

Arthur pretends to consider that. “I suppose we can use the salve.”

“Good. Now, roll on your back.”

Arthur complies eagerly, and Merlin peppers kisses down his chest. He picks up Arthurs left leg, pushing it high and then ducking underneath it, letting it come back down over his shoulder.

“I thought that was for next time?”

Merlin shakes his head. “This is something different. I want you to relax and enjoy this, Arthur.”

Merlin slowly slides his mouth down Arthur's jutting cock. At the same time, he trails the fingers of his free hand down the inside of Arthur's thigh, to his bollocks and then strokes that stretch of skin behind. The hand goes away for a moment and when it returns there's something cool and vaguely wet slipping deftly into the cleft of his arse, pressing ever so lightly against his hole. Arthur shivers.

Pulling off from his leisurely sucking, Merlin chuffs out a low chuckle. "See," he says. "Tingles."

Arthur lets out an undignified sounding giggle. It does tingle and there's also that cooling sensation Merlin had mentioned. It's an unexpected jolt of pleasure.

Merlin takes the tip of Arthur's cock back in his mouth and swirls his tongue around the head, while at his backside the tip of a finger presses inside. He works Arthur's cock and hole both in the same slowly building tempo, easing his finger in – first one, then two – deeper even as he slides his mouth further and further down. After a dizzying few minutes, there are two of Merlin's longer fingers plunging into him, and his nose is practically bumping Arthur's belly.

He feels like they're meeting somewhere deep in the middle of him. It's a sensation like nothing he's ever experienced. He wants to squirm and writhe away, but at the same time push into it. He forces himself to obey the latter urge and gives a little roll of his hips in counterpoint to Merlin's bobbing head and rocking hand. And Merlin hums out a moan around his cock that reverberates down to his balls.

"If this..." Arthur manages to eek out, though he's having trouble forming coherent words, "getting me ready, uh... you have to know I'm there. I am, Merlin. Please. I need you inside me... all the way."

Merlin doesn't respond at first except to suck just a little bit harder and he drives his fingers deep, pulsing them and rubbing against something inside that has Arthur's toes curling and gooseflesh breaking out over the whole of his body. He lets out a low, ululating whine and then can't help panting rapidly.

It's only then that Merlin relents, pulling off with an obscene, wet slurp; and his fingers ease out almost as noisily.

"Yes," Merlin says, voice a little bit hoarse, "I'd say you're ready."

Instead of positioning himself between Arthur's legs, he lies down on the bed beside Arthur and pushes at his hip, encouraging him to roll forward and onto his right side. He hooks a hand under Arthur's knee, stretching it up to his chest with the instruction, "Hold that here."

Arthur is quick to comply. He rests the back of his knee against the crook of an elbow, locking them in place, and it rolls him forward just slightly. He can feel the air of Merlin's breath teasing and chilling the salve that's been generously worked into him.

Then Merlin worms an arm in the gap between Arthur's neck and the pillow for Arthur to lean on. With his other hand, he guides his slicked cock into place, keeping the tip aimed at Arthur's entrance. It's a much more intimate position than Arthur had ever expected, and even though they're not facing each other, he feels weirdly exposed. Merlin is there, though, sucking kisses into the back of his neck even as Arthur feels something thicker and hotter than fingers begin to breach him.

He holds his breath and Merlin sets his teeth at Arthur's nape, nipping the sensitive skin, and hisses out a commanding, "Relax, Arthur," without ever releasing the pressure of the bite.

Arthur is helpless to do anything but follow that instruction. He rolls his head forward, giving Merlin more access to his throat. and he pulls his knee up higher, hugging it against him, while his other hand clutches frantically at Merlin's fingers where they're lying in the downy pillow a few inches from Arthur's chin. He clenches tight at them and Merlin squeezes back a reassurance.

Merlin presses in and in and for a long moment Arthur wonders if it's ever going to end, but then he feels bare thighs pushing up against the crease of his arse and he knows Merlin's fully seated, buried completely inside of him. Merlin takes his own hand away from guiding his cock then and curves it firmly over the jut of Arthur's hip to press at his belly, holding him in place. He rocks his hips back incrementally, and the slow drag out is such a strange sensation Arthur doesn't know what he thinks of it. But before he can make up his mind, Merlin's pushing back in, and in. And that spot inside sparks again as the flared head of Merlin's cock catches against it, and he shudders and has to bite down to keep from crying out.

"You can, Arthur." Merlin looses his biting grip on Arthur's neck long enough to remind him, "You can let go. Be loud. You don't have to hold it in."

And the reminder makes Arthur nearly sob in relief. He doesn't hold back his pleasurable groaning and the low curses and grunts that are pushed out of him in a building rhythm as Merlin increases the tempo of his deep, rolling thrusts.

It's building and building, and he can feel his bollocks pulling up taut and that pressure behind his belly button, but it's just holding there, like it's waiting for some command. Then Merlin shifts his hand again, the one splayed over his belly, fingers scrabbling to wrap themselves around Arthur's leaking cock. He gives a few short, clumsy jerks and Arthur comes with a high-pitched, throat-dragging keen. He's dizzy with it; he feels each pulse rushing through him like Merlin's fucking it out of him, because Merlin's still thrusting, frantically now, arrhythmic.

Arthur urges him on. "Yes, yes, Merlin. Come in me."

Merlin bears down on him, his hand slipping off Arthur's cock to grapple helplessly at his firm belly and press nails hard into the muscle there as his hips stutter in sharp little bursts. And Arthur is kept grounded through it all by the press of Merlin's mouth at the juncture of his neck, and the clench of Merlin's fingers, twined tightly in his and the bedding both.

Merlin comes silently, but Arthur feels it deep inside, and in the way the Merlin's whole body goes tense, and then spasms, like the string of a drawn bow being released.

"Oh gods, Merlin," Arthur whines.

“Arthur… oh, Arthur…”

Still all-over awash with pleasure, Arthur’s still got enough sense to feel flattered by the tone of utter satiation in Merlin’s voice. He kisses Merlin’s knuckles. “Yes,” he agrees fervently.

It’s a few minutes before either of them is coherent enough to do more than let out a little lingering moan or sigh, but eventually, Merlin leans his brow against the back of Arthur’s head and says, “Squeeze my hand, tight.”

Before he can ask why – although he does comply immediately – he feels the utterly bizarre sensation of Merlin’s cock slipping out of him. There’s a slight pinch, but he was too distracted by the pressure on his fingers to really feel any discomfort.

“That’s why,” Merlin says airily, anticipating the question. “That can be uncomfortable.”

Arthur lets his hand go lax, although he doesn’t untangle the knot of their fingers. He does let go of his leg though – ignoring the squelching between his cheeks and thighs – and straightens it out so that he can twist his body flatter on the bed and crane his neck enough to catch Merlin with a slightly off-center kiss.

“That was wonderful,” Arthur says on a heavy exhale. For as little physicality as he exerted, he’s still trying to catch his breath.

“Mmm, yes,” Merlin agrees. He shifts as well, so Arthur can tuck in against his side, their sweat-slick bodies aligning like they’re two halves of a whole, and he clutches greedily at Arthur, even as he seems to be succumbing to his exertions.

Some minutes later, Arthur’s finally got his breath back, and the sweat is cooling on his skin when he feels an odd tickling sensation on his hip. He squirms and wheedles, “_Mer_lin.”

“Arthur,” Merlin replies, sounding half a breath from sleep.

“Stop that,” Arthur mutters. He throws a hand down to stop Merlin’s fingers trailing feather-light over his skin. When he only ends up slapping his own thigh, Arthur takes stock of something significant: both of Merlin’s arms are wrapped around his chest.

“Uh, Merlin,” he says, hoping that high note will be taken for something other than the rising panic that it is. “Something keeps touching my leg, and it’s not you.”

“What?” Half-mast lids slowly peer open. Merlin sits up so abruptly that Arthur’s knocked sideways into a sprawl on the side of the mattress.

“Oh, hell,” Merlin exclaims.

After he untangles himself from the pile of rucked up sheets, Arthur glances around anxiously. It’s dim in the room, with only the glow of the candles, and there are some kinds of dancing spots muddying his vision.

Spots that are moving. One closes in and lands on Arthur’s naked kneecap.

It’s an elegant, blue-winged butterfly.

The room is veritably _swarming_ with butterflies.

“Butterflies, Merlin? Really?”

“Oh gods, I hope they’re only in here.”

Arthur sucks in a breath. He hadn’t considered that. He listens a moment for any sounds of shouts or alarm. It’s been long enough since Merlin came – he can still feel it, damp and cooling on the backs of his thighs – that surely if there were butterflies throughout the castle, someone would’ve raised a ruckus by now.

“I think we’re safe,” Arthur says. And a burst of helpless giggles spews from his lips. He can’t help it… it’s just utterly ridiculous.

Merlin makes an affronted noise. “It’s not that funny, Arthur. How’re we going to get them all out of here?”

Laughing even louder, Arthur waves a hand; which unsettles a pretty, swallow-tailed, saffron yellow flutterer from his shoulder. “I don’t know… open a window?”

“But, it’s nighttime,” Merlin protests. “It’s too cold outside for them.”

Arthur roars, rolling in the sheets and holding tight to his aching abdomen as it quakes and quivers with his guffawing. “You’re worried about the butterflies… Oh, gods. I adore you.”

When Merlin’s silent for a very long time after that, Arthur gets hold of his amusement and turns his head to look over at him. Merlin is staring at him with a very peculiar expression. “What?”

“You adore me?”

Mentally reviewing his prior statement, Arthur realizes he did use those words. He’s actually surprised _other_ words didn’t find their way out. He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “I do,” he says simply.

Merlin grins; it’s a rather daft and wholly smitten expression. “Well, I adore you, too. Even if you’re a prat who doesn’t care about the well-being of butterflies.”

“Prat?” Arthur echoes.

“Would you prefer dollophead?”

Arthur purses his lips. “What does that even mean?”

“Dunno,” Merlin shrugs. “I just like the sound of it. Suits you.”

“Forget I said anything about adoring you,” Arthur mutters, smirking even as he gently shoos away a large butterfly with wings the same shade of red as Camelot’s pennant. “You’re clearly an idiot.”

“From a clotpole, I take that as a compliment.”

“Oh, now you’re just making words up.”

Arthur sits up with a groan – his arse is sore, and his stomach muscles are beginning to ache from the laughter more than the sex – and then clambers to the edge of the bed. “Come on. Let’s see if we can herd these things to the window.”

“But the cold,” Merlin starts to protest.

“They’ll be _fine_, Merlin. It’s spring and there are plenty of butterflies surviving all on their own.” He pauses, staring down at a startlingly bright blue specimen that’s hovering just around his fingers. “Although, I don’t know that some of these are even native to these lands.”

Reluctant at first, Merlin eventually gets frustrated trying to wave his hands and cajole the flying insects toward the window with gentle motions – they’re surprisingly recalcitrant – and finally employs magic to create gentle breeze to sweep the remainder outside.

Arthur closes the window behind the last fluttering body. “Never in my wildest thoughts did post-coital activities include butterflies.” He turns to Merlin and sees that he’s chewing at his bottom lip. “But I’m not complaining!” he crosses the room and catches Merlin up in his arms. It’s such a wonderful feeling to press their naked bodies together, even when there’s nothing sexual about it.

“C’mon, let’s go back to bed.”

Merlin goes along willingly, but after they’re settled with the bedclothes drawn over their bare chests, he reminds Arthur, “I can’t stay the night.”

“I know,” Arthur replies. He’d been avoiding thinking about that but has to acknowledge it now. “But, we did the butterfly chasing part of the whole after sex ritual, now we get to indulge – even if it’s just for a little while – in the snuggling.”

“Well,” Merlin offers magnanimously, “How can I go against such a storied tradition.”

Arthur drifts off with the warmth of skin-on-skin and the softly skirling sursurus of Merlin’s breath in his ear. When he next wakes, it’s to Merlin placing a tender kiss on his cheek.

“I have to go now,” Merlin says softly. “Good night, Arthur.”

He reaches up to trace along Merlin’s jaw and then lets his hand fall back onto the cooling pillow. “G’night, Merlin.”


	18. Chapter 18

The week that follows their return from Othanden proves to be one of the most joyous Arthur’s ever known. He spends his days with Merlin – hunting, fishing, training with the knights and on one memorable occasion, getting soused in the tavern mid-afternoon after losing a bet to Gwaine – and hardly an evening passes without one of them slipping into the others’ room.

A morning spent fishing -just the two of them – teaches Arthur to appreciate being entirely alone in the wilderness when Merlin suggests they celebrate their substantial catch (a measly pair of brown trout) with a swim. He learns that even when he’s being the one buggered, Merlin’s still bossy and mouthy and likes pushing Arthur around. He also discovers that he can be as loud as he wants, and he revels in it, nearly shouting himself hoarse with no more than Virtue and Patience, and possibly some voyeuristic deer, as witnesses.

Another afternoon, on a picnic with Gwen and Lancelot (which the other knights begged out of, citing an urgent need for sparring practice) they learn that in their absence, King Rodor finally made his appearance and brought his daughter Mithian along. The arrival of a third princess roughly the same age as Vivian and Elena apparently caused a bit of a stir. Gwen delights in describing an awkward afternoon spent serving the very martial and severe Queen Annis while she hosted three princesses at a luncheon.

Apparently, instead of engaging with Vivian and Elena, Mithian spent the whole of the visit chatting eagerly with Annis.

“She’s become Queen Annis’ very own disciple,” Gwen tells them, voice ringing with utter delight. “I don’t think Annis knows quite what to make of her, though I wouldn’t be surprised if she follows Annis back to Gwynned when all is said and done.”

“What do Vivian and Elena make of her?” Arthur wants to know, worried they might potentially set their sights on him once again.

“Oh, those two can’t seem to decide if they’re relieved or disappointed. Mithian is quite the balance between them: poised and elegant, but kind and thoughtful. I think Vivian wants to borrow her wardrobe, while Elena might like to ask her to go riding. Honestly,” Gwen says with a cute little snorting giggle, “I think all three are going to be trailing after Annis like ducklings soon enough. She’s quite a formidable woman.”

Late on a chilly morning, King Alined’s manservant, Trickler, is brought before the assembled Kings – shackled and gagged – and as expected, Alined decries his actions as traitorous and he doesn’t protest when a sentence of death by the headsman’s axe is unanimously decided. It’s decided to leave Trickler in the dungeons until the talks are concluded, however.

Arthur suspects that Uther has plans to uncover as much of Alined’s involvement in the treachery as possible.

The treaty is finally ratified late one evening, a full six and a half weeks after the first arrival – King Balinor’s – to Camelot, and each King of those lands that make up eight of the Southern Kingdoms signs his name to it; even Alined. They include a proviso to come together like this, at least once every seven years, to keep the ties between their lands strong.

Boldly, Arthur suggests they might try to persuade King Odin to participate the next time. That Uther doesn’t immediately reject the idea out of hand comes as both a surprise and a relief.

It’s a momentous occasion, and a celebration is called for.

To Arthur’s chagrin, instead of another mere feast, Uther orders a festival for noble and commoner alike, complete with entertainment and sport and plentiful food and drink. Though it takes a few days to arrange, in less than a week it seems the whole of Camelot is packed into the grounds of the keep.

Knights from all the kingdoms who’ve signed the treaty participate in a joust and tournament contests of sword and axe and spear, and Arthur is secretly quite pleased that Camelot and Essetir fare better than all the others. He and Merlin beg off participating, but Arthur rather wishes he could sneak down onto the field during the jousts. Elyan takes the top prize, and Arthur’s unhorsed him more than once. The benches and seating surrounding the arenas and jousting ring are filled to capacity and even Elena, Vivien and Mithian get caught up in the spectacle.

After a morning of martial combat, the early afternoon is filled with lighter fare: troops of troubadours and bards and drummers, every type of jolly act and so many wandering performers juggling fruit or blowing fire or walking on stilts or throwing knives. It’s entertaining, but after a while, Arthur can think of places he’d rather be.

Voice carefully neutral, just hinting at boredom, Arthur says, “I think I’ve seen enough jesters and jugglers for the day.” He feigns a yawn and stretch. “I’m a bit knackered from sparring with some of the knights to prepare them for the tourney. Think I’ll go and check on the preparations for the melee tonight.” He stands and then pauses. “Oh, Merlin, why don’t you join me. We can discuss that idea you had for the mounted archery.”

Merlin shoots him a frown at first, but then he’s lurching to his feet. “Oh, yes. I’d be glad to,” he agrees, catching quickly to Arthur’s meaning.

Gwaine and the others aren’t fooled – if their smirks and inaudible asides to one another are any indication – but Uther and Balinor both wave them off, their dismissals distracted and perfunctory.

In the overly-quiet halls of the nearly empty keep, Merlin mutters, “Mounted archery, Arthur? Really?”

“It was the first thing that came to mind. If anyone asks later why it’s not part of the festivities, we’ll say that we didn’t have time to plan it properly.”

Merlin snickers. “I think we can manage some mounted target practice, just the two of us.” He gives Arthur a salacious, sideward wink.

Groaning, Arthur knocks their shoulders, but if his measured steps increase just slightly in their pace, well Merlin doesn’t need to know that his silly words had any effect.

They're nearly racing as they hurry to Arthur's room, shoving and shouldering the whole way, like it's a contest. They clatter into the door so hard it swings open with a bang, and Arthur's got his hands around Merlin – cupping his cheek and pushing fingers into that soft dark hair – even as he kicks the door closed. It's an easy and familiar habit now, to fall into Merlin's lips and kiss him senseless.

Merlin mutters something like, "Door... locked."

Arthur grins against Merlin's mouth. "Yesss," he breathes, and inwardly he praises the convenience of Merlin's magic yet again. "Yes," he repeats, "good." It's too easy to get caught up in the kissing.

He pushes Merlin back to the bed.

Merlin stumbles and flops backwards onto it with an 'oof', but he's laughing, and he starts working at his belt. Arthur's a step ahead, already yanking off his tunic and tossing it aside. He hops on one foot, yanking a boot off, while Merlin's catching up, tugging his arms out of his sleeves to rid himself of his shirt.

"Hurry up," Merlin taunts. "Get that lovely backside into this bed –”

"Arthur, I wanted to–” The door swings open, Uther already speaking as he enters the room.

Arthur freezes. He's still balancing on one foot and has a boot half off.

"Arthur, what it the hell–”

He spins around, awkwardly dropping his leg, the half-removed boot folding uncomfortably under his weight. Uther is standing in the wide-open doorway. He's got his back to them now, but there's no doubt he saw everything.

Tugging his boot back up, Arthur casts about for his tunic, and he mouths a quick, "Thank you," when Merlin plucks it off the bed and shoves it in his hands.

"Father, what are you doing..." he starts and then changes tack, hating himself even as he tries to say, "It's not what it –”

"I know damn well what it looks like, and that's exactly what it is!" Uther shouts. When he spins around, his face is florid and his expression apoplectic. "Dammit, Arthur, when I told you to get close to the boy, to learn what you could of Essetir's secrets, this is not what I meant!"

All protests die on Arthur's tongue. Shite. He'd never gotten around to confessing that to Merlin.

"What?" And that's Merlin, behind him. "Arthur, what is he talking about?"

He turns his back to his father, the hurt in Merlin's voice his larger concern. Merlin is on his feet, he's mostly resettled his tunic and hastily knotted his belt, and his hair is disheveled, and he looks flush and ravished. But also betrayed. "Is what he said true?"

Even as Merlin's trying to speak to him, Uther continues his tirade. "Of all the damned irresponsible –”

"Father," he finally barks out, "Shut up!"

And that's the wrong thing to say. But apparently Merlin's got no intention to give him any chance to explain. He's glaring and his lower lip is sticking out like he wants to maybe cry or scream. His eyes are dark and narrowed and it's the doubt on his face that wrecks Arthur the most.

"I see," Merlin says bitingly. "I see what this is."

"No, Merlin!"

Merlin starts to stride past him, every motion one of tautly held anger. Arthur moves to follow.

"You will not leave this room," Uther bellows.

Arthur hesitates, torn. He's made his father angry before, but he's never seen him this furious. Yet, at the same time, he could be losing Merlin.

"Look, father, I will –”

Uther interrupts, retorting; "You will do no such thing!"

By then it's too late. Merlin is already pushing past Uther, a curt and very disrespectful, "Your highness," dripping venomously off his tongue, as he snaps a glare at the king, his indifference to the man withering – and then he storms out of the room. The door slams on his heels and Arthur knows that he didn't have a hand on it. It's fortunate that Uther didn't see.

"Of all the fool-headed things," Uther continues, ranting vehemently. "Get a damn maidservant to bed Essetir's prince, I said. Not do it yourself."

"This has nothing to do with your scheme, father," Arthur argues.

Uther frowns, like he hadn't even considered that as an option. "Then how do you explain yourself. You can't tell me you actually have feelings for the boy."

Arthur juts his chin up, defiant. "And if I do?"

"That's impossible." A declaration, like there could be no other option.

"Dammit, father. This is none of your business!"

"None of my business?" Uther echoes, outraged. "Of course, this is my business. This is the future of Camelot. You are the heir to the throne. You are to marry a suitable noblewoman of my choosing."

"The hell I will!" Arthur argues, all thoughts of propriety gone with Merlin's departure. "I'll marry whoever the hell I want!"

"Arthur," Uther grounds out.

But Arthur is done. "No, father. I'm not listening to this anymore."

"You can't just walk away from me."

There's a threat in that tone, but Arthur has one last gambit. "I'm going to see my mother. We'll see what she thinks of this."

And that does give Uther pause. She's always told Arthur to follow his heart and even before the illness took hold – or really, the magic – she's stood up to Uther whenever he's talked of making decisions for Arthur's future without Arthur's support or leave.

"You'll leave your mother out of this. She doesn't need to be disturbed and have you aggravating her illness –”

"Stop," Arthur insists, plaintive now. "Stop lying to me."

Uther rears back, eyes going narrow. "Lying? What are you talking about?"

"Were you ever going to tell me?" His tone is half accusatory, half pleading. All the emotions he's kept in check – even when admitting to his mother that he knew the truth, he managed to rein them in – come bubbling to the surface. His eyes burn and the harshness of his words drag along his throat.

"About what?"

Arthur scoffs. He probably shouldn't be surprised that Uther's still playing dumb. "About how and why I came about."

Uther turns away, his gaze dropping to the floor. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You do. You know exactly what I mean. The circumstances of my birth. That I was born of magic."

Uther goes pale. "Who... who told you that?"

Propping his hands on his hips, Arthur cocks his head and very smarmily replies, "Well, if you must know, it was a damn dragon that shared that information with me."

"What?" Uther scowls, teeth curling away from his lips. "Balinor."

"No, actually it had nothing to do with Balinor. The dragon's name is Kilgharrah."

Still, Uther seems fixed on this point. "And when, exactly did you encounter this dragon. And why is this the first time I'm hearing about it?"

"I encountered him during my travels to Whitelake, and the reason I didn't tell you is because I'm done playing your little games father. I'm done doing dishonorable things in the name of the kingdom. You have an opportunity here for peace; real peace with all the Southern Kingdoms. And you want to throw it away because of some petty misunderstanding from more than twenty years ago?"

"Petty misunderstanding?" Uther parrots, bitter as Arthur's ever heard him. "Do you know what happened to your mother. You know what she's like. You know what caused it. Magic is responsible for –”

"No!" Arthur exclaims. "No, _magic_ is not responsible. _She_ is. And she knows it. And if you're angry with her, I understand, but she did it out of love for you and for me. And I, for one, can forgive her that."

"Arthur there's still the matter of –”

Arthur swipes a hand through the air. "No. We're done talking about this. If we're going to discuss it at all, we're going to discuss it in front of my mother."

Uther throws his shoulders back and straightens. "Perhaps it's long past time we did."

If he was expecting Arthur not to call him on his bluff, he'll be disappointed. "Yes, let's go then."

He doesn't wait for a response; he marches right past Uther, swings the door open and tromps down the hall. His angry strides carry him to the royal wing and his mother rooms. He doesn't bother to check if Uther is following.

Guinevere is inside when he gets there and Ygraine is in her willow chair by the window again. She's able to smile when she sees him, but that's as much as she's capable of. "Gwen, could we –”

Before he can finish, Uther steps into the room. Gwen looks up at him, startled.

And how telling is that? Arthur wonders. That it's likely that Gwen hasn't seen Uther in here in weeks or months even. And never the three of them at once. It's no wonder she looks shocked. She gives Arthur a quick smile, curtsies to Ygraine and says, "If you'll excuse me, your highnesses." She hurries out of the room and closes the door quietly behind her.

Arthur moves to his usual spot, kneeling beside his mother's chair. "Mother, I told father that I know."

"She knew?" Uther asks, sounding betrayed. "You spoke to her about this, and not me?"

Even though she's quite weak, Ygraine has strength enough to glare at her husband.

"Of course, I did. Which of you is going to be the one to actually listen to me when I want to know the truth of my birth and the magic involved?” he asks, rhetorical and wry. “Would you have ever told me anything, father?"

Uther goes tight-lipped and looks away.

"That's what I thought." He takes his mother's hand. "I'm sorry, mum. I didn't want this to happen this way."

"It's still evil, Arthur," Uther states flatly. "And I did what I did because it was righteous. Look at what magic has wrought." He gestures to Ygraine. Even through the anger though, Arthur can see the heartbreak there; the things he's long been in denial of.

"That wasn't because of magic. Magic is no more good or bad than the person wielding it. Magic is what it is asked to be by the user and nothing more. And I'm sorry you can't see that father, but I do."

"Arthur, you don't understand!"

Placing his free hand on the arm of the chair, Arthur squeezes, letting the woven willow branches take the brunt of his ire, rather than his mother's delicate fingers which he still cradles oh-so carefully in the other. "So, what you're saying, father, is that you wish I'd never been born?"

"No, Arthur –"

"Well, you're saying that mother made the wrong decision when she chose to use magic. That my being here is the result of something evil."

"Arthur, that's not what I'm saying at all." And for all his rage and bluster, Arthur finally sees his father for what he is: a man torn apart by love and betrayal.

"You have to forgive her, you know," Arthur tells him after a long silence has settled over the room. He looks to his mother then. "And you have to forgive him too."

Her eyes widen slightly, at first – at his boldness perhaps, or the simplicity of his declaration – but then her expressions softens into serenity and she gives a little nod.

"Please," Arthur adds, turning back to Uther. His father has moved to the fireplace, one hand braced on the mantle, and is staring down at the crackling logs.

"It's been too long," he finally utters. "She'd never..."

Arthur wants to swear again. "Just ask her if she'll forgive you, dammit."

Uther's shoulders roll back again, and for a moment Arthur's afraid he's going to stalk out of the room. But then he turns, sharply, and strides the few yards separating them and drops to a knee on the other side of Ygraine's chair. He takes her dainty free hand in both of his, which looks so small and pale against his calloused skin.

“My love, I cannot..." he trails off.

"Uther," Ygraine manages, barely a whisper.

Arthur takes the hand he's holding and places it atop Uther's.

"You're both stubborn, and you're both fools," Arthur declares, "And you both still love each other."

There are tears on Uther's cheeks, which is something Arthur never thought he'd see. His mothers are pale but pinked – like winter ice reflecting the warmth of a spring rose – and glistening wetly.

"I can't face losing you," Uther admits hoarsely.

Ygraine's head pivots side-to-side; a negation. "It wasn't the fault of the magic," she tells him. The words are still weak and thready, but it's like some kind of strength has suffused her. "Our son was worth it, my love. I will never regret the gift we were given."

And now Arthur's the third Pendragon in the room with the dampness of tears darkening his collar. It's a moment that is long overdue his family. Yet even as he's desperately glad to see this come to fruition and to be witness to it, there's also a part of him fretting over what Merlin must think of him. He can't leave now, though. Not yet.

"Ygraine, I'm sorry. I'm sorry my wrong-headed foolishness has kept me from your side. I'm sorry I was selfish and couldn't bear to see you suffer."

She lifts a trembling hand and traces a fingertip down one of the tear tracks to where it drips off his chin. "I know, Uther. As am I."

"And I'm sorry, about Morgana." Uther goes on.

Arthur inwardly winces. This isn't a subject he wants to be in the room for.

His mother doesn't appear angry though. She's still calm and beatific. "She's worth it, too," she says with iron in her voice.

Uther looks gobsmacked. Still, he seems compelled to his confession. "I was so angry at you, and I didn't know how to talk to you. And Vivian was distraught and angry with Gorlois away. And it was stupid, and I was drunk, and I never stopped loving you. It was the worst betrayal, I know this."

"You wanted to hurt me, like I hurt you," Ygraine tells him. They're bitter words but spoken matter-of-fact.

Hanging his head, Uther nods. "Yes. Yes, you're right."

"I forgive you," she states, touching the top of his head like it's a benediction. He lifts his chin, looking up at her with undisguised wonder. "I love you both," she goes on. "You are both my life."

"I love you, mother." Arthur tells her. He swallows his pride then and meets his father's eyes. "And you, father."

"Arthur," Uther draws a deep breath. "I'm sorry."

Arthur rocks back on his heels. The last thing he expected was an apology directed at him. "What about?"

Uther rolls his eyes, but it's meant to be an all-encompassing gesture, Arthur can tell. "Not telling you the truth about your birth. And not telling you enough that I am proud of you." Almost sheepishly he adds, "And, asking you to act against your nature on behalf of Camelot with Balinor's boy." He sighs. "What you said to me, in your chambers, about peace. You were right. I just want what's best for you. A stable kingdom –”

"Will come about, like it or not," Ygraine interrupts. "Let your son follow his heart. Please."

Uther lowers his head, resting his brow on their clasped hands in her lap. She strokes the silvering hair at his nape with trembling fingers. "I'm sorry, my love." His voice is muffled and weary.

Ygraine turns slightly, moving more with her eyes than anything else, and she gives a little twitch of her chin. "Go after him, Arthur."

How she knows, Arthur has no idea, but he doesn't need to be told twice. He hops to his feet, presses a kiss to her cheek, "Thank you, mother."

Uther turns his head enough that he can look up at him. Arthur waits, braced for reproach or refusal, but he just smiles softly... sadly, and says, "Do what your mother tells you."

Arthur nods, "Thank you, father. I will." He bolts for the door.


	19. Chapter 19

A frantic Arthur runs the corridors to Merlin's chambers, hoping desperately to find him still inside; but the door is ajar, and it looks as though a small tempest has made its' way through the room. Drawers are empty and cupboards hanging bare and there doesn't appear to be anything of Merlin's left behind. "Dammit," he curses.

The knight’s guest quarters are his next stop, and he finds Elyan and Leon standing outside an open door. Running toward them, he yells out, "Merlin? Is he –”

But they both shake their heads.

"He took off," Leon says once Arthur's skidded to a stop next to him. He nods towards the room where Gwaine and Percival are still packing-up.

"Don't know what you said to him, princess,” Gwaine grumbles, “but Merlin hightailed it like a demon was on his heels." He shoots a withering glare in Arthur’s direction.

"By himself?" Arthur looks around. Even the hated epithet slips by, ignored.

"Lancelot went with him," Percival offers. His expression is a little less accusatory, but also not the affable, good-natured mien Arthur has come to know.

"Look, I didn't... this was a misunderstanding. I need to go." He doesn't have time to explain. "Do you know which way he went? Is he riding for Essetir?"

Gwaine goes close-lipped and shakes his head. Percival, at least, looks torn. "Yes," he finally says, ignoring the glare Gwaine redirects at him. "He and Lancelot rode for Ealdor. Don't know if you'll catch him, Arthur. He's good at evading people when he doesn't want to be found."

"I have to try," Arthur says.

He starts to turn on a heel, mind already on reaching the stables, when Gwaine calls out, "Just, fix this, Pendragon."

"I will. I promise."

He detours for a quick stop to grab up his travel pack – which was readied for a fishing trip he and Merlin had planned the following day – and is panting by the time he makes it through the teeming crowds to the stables. Merlin's beautiful mare is gone from her stall, and so is one of the other Essetir mounts. He orders Virtue saddled, loaded with fodder for two-days ride, and quizzes Tyr on which direction Prince Merlin and his escort went. Logically, there's one way they would've gone to get to Essetir, but he's not sure if Merlin's thinking straight, or if he'd ride directly, or perhaps deliberately take a different path to avoid the chance for Arthur to catch him up.

Arthur doesn’t care a whit either way of the direction. He's going to find Merlin, no matter what; even if he has to ride all night to reach Ealdor. He says a curt thanks to Tyr when the reins are handed over and he practically leaps into the saddle. He chooses the Eastern gate, as it's the most direct, and once beyond the confining city streets and the milling celebrants, he digs his heels into Virtue's barrel, kicking him into a gallop.

It's already late afternoon, and the borders of Essetir are a day and a half, at least, Ealdor even further, but he has no plans to stop for more than brief moments to let his horse snatch a few bites of grass or quench his thirst when they come upon fresh water. He keeps alert, eyes ever-scanning ahead, searching in the distance for any sign of motion or other riders, and as the sun descends, he watches for those telltale glowing lights Merlin uses to guide his way in the dark. He spies nothing.

When night falls, heavy and dark and the moon little more than a waning crescent casting pale light, he's forced to slow to a walk – more for fear of doing harm to his horse, than himself – and somewhat glad of it. He's pushed Virtue too hard and is beginning to feel the guilt of it. His idiocy is no reason to stress his loyal steed. Rightly, he should stop and make camp and try to get a few hours of rest, but he wonders if Merlin is upset enough to push on. He can’t imagine that Merlin would run Patience through the night like he’s doing to Virtue.

Cursing himself – his stupidity, his selfishness – Arthur finally halts at what must be nearing midnight once he comes upon the curving bend of a slender, burbling brook not far off the road. He sets up a cold camp, doing little more than laying out his bedroll, and then spends a few candlemarks giving Virtue a well-deserved curry and rub-down. Fortunately, the stallion doesn’t seem any worse for wear, and he grunts and leans into the sharp points of the brush, itching himself against the tines. Arthur gives his withers a thorough scratching for good measure.

“Sorry, boy,” he says to the horse, tying him so that he’s got access to the lightly trickling flow of water and the lush grass growing alongside. “You don’t deserve to be on the receiving end of my dishonorable behavior.” He snorts at himself, wry and humorless. “I wish I’d lived up to the name you were given.”

Virtue, of course, ignores his self-recrimination and continues to slurp noisily at the water and tear up mouthfuls of the tender green shoots.

Arthur fills his waterskin and forces down a hunk of dry, crumbly bread and half a wedge of piquant cheese. All that does is depress him further, as he remembers asking for George to ensure the kitchens included that particular type of nutty, sharp cheese because Merlin’s fond of it.

He finally settles into his bedroll and can only bemoan the fact that there’s no one laid out under a cloak, just a handspan away. It should be peculiar how quickly he’s gotten used to Merlin being at his side, but he’d been heartened by it instead. Now, he feels more alone than ever.

When he’s finally dragged into a fitful, restless sleep by way of pure exhaustion, Arthur’s arm is still out flung and his fingers splayed, searching.

It’s the cold that wakes him some hours before dawn. He’s dreaming of winter and the bitter chill of a freezing night, and he keeps reaching for the fire of a brazier and then yanking his hand back when the heat is too much. It aches, sharp and tingly, and that’s what draws him awake: bending fingers that have gone stiff and numb. He realizes he’d slept with his hand outstretched and though it’s not an overly cold spring night, without the warmth of his cloak, the cold seeped in.

Arthur rubs at his hand, and then tucks it under his arm to warm it further. He studies the position of the moon, where it’s closer to the far horizon than the near, and figures he’s got at least another hour, closer to two, before the sun rises. He should get more rest – gods know he needs it if he’s going to spend another day in the saddle – but he’s already wide-awake, and restless. The urge to catch-up to Merlin is too strong, overriding good sense.

He apologizes to Virtue, who whuffles sleepily into his palm as Arthur feeds him some handfuls of the oats and barley from the small sack tied to the saddle – a quick treat to assuage his lingering guilt – and promises to find him carrots or apples when they reach Ealdor.

Once he’s mounted and following the road once more, he lets the stallion plod along at an easy walk for a bit to let him loosen muscles and joints that must be stiff. As the sky begins to lighten with coming dawn, he clucks his tongue to urge him into a lope, and then finally presses bootheels into Virtue’s flank, spurring him into a gallop toward the bright orange glow of the rising sun on the horizon.

Like the day before, Arthur stops only a few times to rest and water his horse, refilling his own waterskin as well, but he eats his own meals in the saddle, settling for dried venison and trail biscuits. He alternates the pace with more consideration, but it chafes at him any time they slow.

He hardly rested, and he’s been a veritable beast to the stallion in how far and how fast he’s pushed the sturdy animal, and yet he’s come across no sign of Merlin. What if Percival was wrong about where Merlin was going? What if he and Lancelot rode off in the opposite direction?

Frantic thoughts chase around Arthur’s mind, building upon themselves and growing worse and worse with each repetition, and he’s so distracted by them that he almost doesn’t notice the outskirts of the village he’s approaching.

He’d avoided other hints of habitation – hearth smoke in the distance, travel signs pointing towards small towns in various directions – but this is the village he’s after. He draws back on the reins, slowing Virtue before they get too close.

Now that he’s nearly here, a heavy feeling settles in his gut; what if Merlin won’t see him?

“You have to try,” he tells himself, forcing a confidence into his voice that he doesn’t necessarily feel.

It’s nearing evening, and the dusty, dirt roads that weave between the small farms and homes and outbuildings are mostly empty. He spies a man hauling buckets on a yoke over his shoulders and calls out to him.

“Ho, there, friend.”

The man turns, frowning when he looks up at Arthur. He’s got dark hair and a patchy beard. “Good evening,” the man says, polite but curt.

“This is Ealdor, correct?”

The man nods.

“Good.” He dismounts and approaches. “I won’t trouble you in your errand any longer than a moment, but I was wondering if you could direct me to Hunith’s house?”

Eyes narrowing, the man continues to frown. “And who’re you that I should do such a thing?”

Arthur debates lying but can think of no good reason to. “Prince Arthur, of Camelot.”

“Oh really?” The man scoffs.

He’s got no proof of his identity other than the sigil on his cloak, but Arthur nods nonetheless.

“And I’m just to believe you and direct you to the home of Essetir’s queen?”

“I’ll handle this, Matthew.”

Arthur turns at the voice, and spies Lancelot walking in his direction. He blows out a sigh of relief. “Lancelot, it’s goo–”

Lancelot draws his sword.

Arthur cranes his neck to look behind him, expecting to see some one else riding up. A bandit maybe? But there’s no one else. Even Matthew is hurrying away, water buckets sloshing on either end of the yoke. He turns back, confused. “What’re you doing?”

Giving a culpable shrug, Lancelot says simply, “Avenging the honor of my liege and my friend.”

For a moment, Arthur is tempted to laugh, but the look on Lancelot’s face is one of steadfast obligation; he truly plans to duel Arthur.

Spreading his hands, Arthur says, “Please, Lancelot. There’s no need for this. Let me talk to Merlin. I need to explain.”

“Explain how you deceived him? How you took advantage of his nature only to suss out secrets of magic and dragons?”

“I did no such thing,” Arthur protests, frustration building.

“So, your father was lying then?”

Arthur shakes his head. He can’t prevaricate on this. “No, he wasn’t.”

The sword rises and Lancelot steps into a guard position.

“From his perspective, he wasn’t lying. Yes, he ordered me to befriend Merlin. To learn what I could of Essetir’s defenses and capabilities.”

“So you admit –”

“No!” Arthur snaps. “Dammit, Lancelot. Listen to me a moment. I never did any of that.” He catches himself, realizing he’s not being wholly honest. “Wait, that’s not entirely true. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t go in to our first meeting with my father’s instructions in mind. But, I decided the very _next day_ after we met that I had no intention of telling my father anything. And I didn’t.”

“No?” Lancelot looks doubtful.

Arthur shakes his head vehemently. “No, never. I had dinner with my father on two different occasions these past few weeks where he did nothing but chastise me for failing at my ‘task’.” He puts a bitter emphasis on the word. “The last time he even suggested I throw Guinevere at Merlin, to try to seduce him into spilling secrets.”

“What?”

Lancelot’s glowering indignation would be amusing if he weren’t also levering a blade at Arthur’s chest.

“Look, my father can be a bastard at times. And this was clearly one of them. I never agreed with his scheming, but he wouldn’t listen to me.”

“Why would he want you to do such a thing in the first place? The whole purpose of the meeting was to talk of an accord between the Southern Kingdoms.”

It’s a question Arthur’s asked himself and he’s never been satisfied with the answer. Although, recent truths coming to light have put a different spin on his understanding.

“There is a long and storied history between my father and your king. One that precedes Balinor taking that role, or my birth, or Merlin’s. My father’s excuse was that he wanted to be prepared should the pursuit of peace not succeed. But, I think, deep down he was achingly curious about what a kingdom with magic was like. He worked so hard to eradicate magic from Camelot, and yet here was a man who’d taken control of a kingdom with it and brought prosperity to the whole of it. He’s envious, I think, of what Balinor has done. And believe me, I think he’s starting to regret ever turning his back on magic. To say nothing of asking me for such a despicable thing as spying on a potential ally.”

The sword tip lowers, but Lancelot still appears dubious. “Yet you still tried to deny what was happening when he walked in on you and Merlin. Said it wasn’t what it looked like, I believe? Why lie if you weren’t still doing his bidding?”

Oh hell. Merlin certainly shared _everything_ with Lancelot. “Yes, I know I did. I was shocked… I didn’t know what I was saying. And because…” He pauses, inhaling sharply. “Because –” he bites out, unable to bring that sentence to its conclusion. A flush of frustration burns at his ears and the back of his neck and his eyes sting with it.

“Because?” Lancelot prods. There’s something so knowing in his eyes. Arthur almost wishes he’d raise the sword again. A duel sounds much less terrifying than what he’s yet to say.

Swallowing down the last bit of lingering fear, Arthur makes the hardest admission of all. “Because I was a coward and couldn’t tell my father that I’d fallen in love.”

There’s a loud, gasping, “Oh!”

But not from Lancelot.

Arthur spins around, to see that Merlin is now standing behind him.

He looks a wreck; his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot and heavily shadowed beneath, his face blotchy and pale, like he’s gone a month without decent sleep. His hair is more unruly than usual, and his scarf is lopsided, like it was tied on in a hurried rush.

“Merlin!” Arthur gasps and then he gestures somewhat helplessly. “How… how much of that did you hear?”

Merlin rolls his lips over his teeth, biting down and pressing so hard the blush-petal pink turns white. His eyes – those ridiculously gorgeous eyes of cloudless, winter sky, still beautiful despite the ruddy blemishes – are wide and glistening. Arthur watches as the lines of sinew in Merlin’s elegant throat jump with his loud swallow.

“Enough,” Merlin finally says on a blustery exhale. “I heard enough.”

“I’m so sorry,” Arthur hurries to apologize. He takes a step forward, hoping his advance won’t be rebuffed. “I meant to tell you, so many times. About my father’s stupid plan. And things just kept distracting me and then it never seemed to matter because you and I… what we have is…”

“Arthur,” Merlin interrupts gently. He takes his own step closer, and Arthur can see that his eyelashes are spiked with wetness, but he can also see dimples pushing into Merlin’s cheeks as he fights a smile. “I forgive you. And I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have run out of there. I should’ve trusted that you wouldn’t –”

“But I shouldn’t have tried to deny what we are –”

“- and I should’ve stayed in Camelot and waited for you to explain –”

They’re talking over each other, spewing out apologies and forgiveness and understanding in sentences and fragments that grow muddled and mixed up and confused and yet somehow make perfect sense. And then Arthur reaches out and Merlin reaches back, and they crash into each other, embracing and holding each other tight.

“My work here is done,” Lancelot states, and Arthur hears the distinct metal-on-leather sound of a sword being re-sheathed. “I’ll tell your mother there will be one more for dinner.”

Arthur doesn’t let go for a very long time. He holds tight to Merlin, pressing his face into the crook of Merlin’s neck, breathing in the scent of him, feeling the brush of Merlin’s hair against his cheek and the possessive grip Merlin’s fingers have in his collar.

Eventually, Arthur finally looses his grip and extricates himself from the – probably overlong – hug. “I’ve missed you,” he says.

“Me too,” Merlin agrees. He darts close again, stealing a brief but sweetly lingering kiss. “C’mon, now it’s my turn to introduce you to my mother.”

Queen Hunith of Essetir is a lovely, kind woman who welcomes Arthur into her home with a warm smile, but only once she’s given the reassurance that Merlin has forgiven him.

Arthur’s quietly grateful he didn’t end up meeting her before he and Merlin had made up. He imagines that Hunith could be quite formidable if the circumstances called for it. He’d thought that Merlin’s calm demeanor even when facing enemies was something inherited from Balinor, but he was quite wrong.

Hunith ushers them all to a table and a waiting pot of stewed mutton and vegetables, and she ladles out bowls to everyone, before joining them. It’s so unlike any queen he’s ever known, that Arthur’s somewhat taken aback. During their light conversation over dinner, however, he relaxes and decides that Ygraine and Hunith would likely get on rather well. He shares that thought aloud.

“Oh, but I’ve met your mum, Arthur,” Hunith tells him. “And you. Didn’t you know?”

Arthur turns to Merlin, seated next to him. “I don’t think you’d mentioned that?”

Merlin frowns. “No, I don’t think I knew that either, mum. When was this?”

Hunith steeples her fingers and purses her lips a moment. “Oh, you couldn’t have been more than a lad of four or perhaps five, Merlin. I took you with me to Camelot.”

“You did? What for?”

“Oh, to visit Gaius. You were having a bit of trouble with a spring cough and it was causing some troubles with –” she pauses, glancing at Arthur.

“He knows all of it, mum,” Merlin reassures her. “All about the magic and everything.”

“Oh good,” she smiles, approving. “Well, you were having some trouble keeping your magic under control and the cough seemed to exacerbate things. I’d written to Gaius, asking him to visit Ealdor, but he was terribly busy with a pox outbreak in the lower town, so I decided to bring you to him.”

Merlin starts to nod slowly. “Oh yes, I think I do remember this now. I can vaguely recall a very long ride in a wagon and then being in a very large castle. And having to drink foul tasting potions.” He grimaces at the recollection, and then blinks at Arthur. “I had no idea that was Camelot.”

Arthur grins in reply and then asks Hunith, “You said that you’d met my mother then? How did that come about?” 

“Gaius told your mother I was visiting. So, she invited me to see her. Your father was tied up with matters of court, so I took Merlin to her rooms and we had a long, lovely chat.” She reaches across the table, covering Arthur’s hand with her own. “You were there as well. You and Merlin spent the whole of an afternoon playing together with your toy soldiers.”

“The wooden dragon!” Merlin blurts, turning to Arthur excitedly. “I saw it in your mother’s room. I thought it looked familiar. My father carved that for me. I must’ve left it behind.”

That prompts a memory for Arthur, grey-edged and fuzzy, but enough that he can put the pieces together. “No, you gave it to me. I remember now. You said I needed a dragon to help my knights. And I argued that my knights should fight him.” He struggles to remember more. “I traded you, I think. I gave you one of my knights in exchange for the dragon?”

Merlin’s jaw drops. “Yes! You did. I… I have it still!” He bounds up from the table and hurries down a short hallway. He’s back only a few moments later, a battered wooden figure balanced on his hand outstretched. Though the coloring has faded, leaving areas scuffed with patchy, raw wood, Arthur recognizes the little knight with his sword and shield; he’s got a matched set put away in the bottom of a chest in his room.

He gazes up at Merlin, all sorts of thoughts of fate and destiny whirling around in his mind. From the affectionate cast to his eyes and slight blush creeping up his cheeks, he suspects Merlin is thinking much the same.

“Remarkable,” Lancelot comments with a laugh.

Arthur startles. For a moment he forgot they have an audience.

Hunith laughs, warm and delighted. “Well it’s meant to be then, the two of you finding each other again and becoming such good friends.”

Her emphasis on the latter word tells Arthur that she’s fully aware of just how things stand between him and her son.

Arthur wants to share her happiness, but he’s still struggling with the notion that for all his father gave him leave to set things straight with Merlin, there’s no guarantee he’ll not simply revert to his plans to marry Arthur off to someone’s eligible daughter.

Heavier still, is the thought that it’s only his mother’s influence that’s keeping the worst of Uther’s selfish, pig-headed tendencies at bay. They were lucky, yesterday, at her odd surge of energy… he knows those moments will come less and less. Without his mother’s guidance and gentle hand, he knows Uther will fall back to his old ways of thinking.

Both Merlin and Hunith must sense the cloud settling over him, despite the fact he’s trying to smile through it. Merlin rejoins him at the table, bumping his shoulder lightly, while Hunith cups his hand again and asks, “What troubles you.”

“My father,” he admits. “It’s just… my mother grows weaker by the day. He seemed to come around to her way of thinking, but I doubt it will last. Especially once…” He can’t finish that thought. Knowing that his mother’s time grows short, and all because of him, isn’t something he can think about.

“I wish there was a way I could help her,” Merlin says softly, threading his fingers through Arthur’s other hand beneath the table.

“Well,” Hunith says matter-of-factly, “it couldn’t hurt to try.”

Arthur’s head snaps up. “I’m sorry? What was that?”

“Yes,” Merlin adds, “what was that?”

Hunith looks from one to the other, an odd frown pulling at her generous mouth. “You could try to heal her.”

“It’s not a case of simply healing, mum,” Merlin tells her, sounding regretful. “What’s happening to Ygraine is due to a powerful spell that was cast before I was born.”

“Well, break the spell then,” Hunith says, like it’s a simple thing.

Arthur tamps down on the little surge of hope beginning to swell in his chest. It’s… impossible. And from Merlin’s downturned mouth, he thinks so as well.

“It’s not as easy as that, mum. The magic is tied to her life, and the sorceress Nimueh’s life. It’s drawing from them both. There isn’t a way to stop that. Magic has a cost and it must be paid.”

“I know that, dear boy,” Hunith tuts at him. “But, this Nimueh found a way to share that burden, to extend her life so that Ygraine could know her son and raise him. Couldn’t you share it further still?”

“With me,” Arthur insists, immediate and sure. “You can share it with me. I’ll gladly take that on to give my mother more time. And my father would as well. I know he would.”

Merlin’s gone pale, and his swallow clicks in a dry throat. “I…” he tries to croak out. Lancelot immediately hands over his cup of watered wine and Merlin gulps it down greedily. He sets the empty goblet down and swallows again. “I… I’ve never done anything like that. It’s beyond any magic I’ve ever tried.”

Hunith stretches out her other arm across the table, catching at Merlin’s wrist and gripping tight. “My boy, you are the most powerful sorcerer ever to walk the earth. Kilgharrah himself spoke those words and you know your father and I believe him. Dragons are wise and long-lived and gifted with prophecy. If anyone can do this, it’s you, Merlin.”

That hope flares brighter and more insistent, and Arthur doesn’t want to fuel it… not yet, but he can’t help keeping it kindled. “I believe in you, Merlin,” he says, but forces himself to add. “But, I won’t ask this of you if you don’t –”

“I’ll do it,” Merlin states. “I mean,” he goes on, slow, like he’s choosing each word carefully, “I will try. But, please understand that there is no guarantee. And I won’t risk anyone else’s life –” Arthur tries to protest but Merlin speaks over him – “not yours or your father’s, even if you both wish it.” He fixes Arthur with a firm look. “I mean that.”

Arthur nods, as much as it chafes at him to agree. “All right. That’s fair.”

“Good, that’s settled then,” Hunith states happily, like she’s just made arrangements for an afternoon’s picnic, not proposed an endeavor that could change Arthur’s whole life. “You can leave tomorrow,” she adds, probably sensing that if given the chance, Arthur would already be on the back of his horse and rushing off to Camelot. “For now, I’ve made a pear and apple custard tart, which I hope you all enjoy.”

Hunith busies herself fetching them dessert and Lancelot, perhaps sensing they need a moment, leaves the table to clear their plates. It’s much less formal here, without the servants and staff that are always about in Camelot.

Since that’s a safer topic, Arthur says, “We must seem so spoiled.” He gestures at the simple furnishings, and the quaint, homey space of Hunith and Balinor’s humble home.

Merlin shrugs. “It’s just different, is all. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy having my breakfast brought to my room instead of having to fetch it or make it myself. Plus, it provides opportunity for the people of Camelot. Steady income, security. Those things aren’t always easy to guarantee.”

Arthur grins. Trust Merlin to cast his privilege in such a generous light. It also gives him an opportunity… one he’s scared as hell to take but can’t pass up. “So,” he begins lightly, though there’s a tremor in his voice, “you’re saying that if I could convince my father of the benefit in a union between Essetir and Camelot, you’d be willing to settle for that kind of luxury?”

At first, Merlin’s smile broadens, playful and then it falters as his widening eyes chase his brows halfway up his forehead; but then the smile makes its slow return, smaller, softer and curving lopsided into one cheek. “Did you just ask me to marry you?”

“Um,” Arthur gulps past the knot in his throat. “Yes? I think I did.”

“Right,” Merlin replies, giving a little, jerking nod. “Right. And in that case, I think I’m agreeing.”

“Oh, well that’s good then.”

It’s fortunate that Hunith and Lancelot choose that moment to return, as it stops Arthur and Merlin staring at each other with what must be ridiculously soppy expressions.

“Something amiss?” Lancelot asks, squinting eyes flicking from one to the other.

He and Merlin exchange a speaking look. “No,” they both answer at the same time.

“Oh, let them be, Lance, dear,” Hunith insists. “And have a seat. I can manage this.”

“Speaking of dear Lance,” Merlin pipes up a few minutes later, after he happily accepts a shallow dish holding a neatly sliced wedge of the pear-apple tart that’s been drizzled in a honeyed cream.

Already putting a forkful to his mouth, Lancelot looks up, blinking.

With an impish grin, Merlin asks his mother, “Has he mentioned the lovely Guinevere?”

“No,” Hunith says, and her pert smile matches her son’s. “I don’t believe he has.”

Teasing Lancelot over the delicious confection – it puts Cook Audrey’s quince and ginger pies to shame – Arthur settles into the knowledge that he could have a future with Merlin if everything goes right.

He holds tight to that thought as they move from the kitchen to the common room and settle into comfortable chairs around a crackling hearth. Hunith plys them with mulled wine and Arthur begs stories of Merlin’s childhood from her and Lancelot, while Merlin blushes and squirms and sits far too close on a small settee.

Determined to enjoy the night, Arthur very carefully ignores the niggling voice at the back of his head suggesting all the many and varied way things can – and likely will – go wrong. For just tonight, he’s going to let himself believe he can have everything: his mother, and his family and Merlin.

It’s still fairly early by the time Hunith suggests they all take to bed, but she reminds them that a good night’s sleep will make the morning’s journey go easier. Despite her seeming comfort with the state of their relationship, she’s is adamant that Arthur sleep in the common room, sharing the space with Lancelot, while Merlin is shuffled off – protesting – to his own room.

Arthur manages very little sleep on the wobbly cot, but it’s nothing to do with Lancelot’s soft breathing or the unfamiliar setting, though he’d like to blame those prosaic things.

Instead, it’s the miasma of emotion whirling through his mind. He pines for Merlin, who’s only yards away, tucked in his own familiar bed. Even though they’ve rarely had the chance to spend the night together, he aches to have Merlin curled up next to him.

Dread and hope also war within him. There’s such a chance for everything to change… but it hinges on something that’s still so unsure: magic. He wasn’t lying when he said he trusted Merlin – he does, with his whole heart – but, he’s learned enough to understand the danger inherent in what Merlin will attempt. He’s scared for his mother, and for himself, but for Merlin as well, because he knows that Merlin will try, and despite his words to the contrary, that he might ignore the cost if only to make Arthur happy.

When he does manage to slip into a twilit slumber, it’s fraught and unrestful and plagued by snatches of dark, moody dreams. By the time dawn’s glow shows through the windows, he’s fully awake and staring blankly at the ceiling.

Fortunately, Merlin rises early for once and he pads out into the common room already dressed for the day. They rouse Lancelot, and while they’re readying for the return journey, Hunith wakes as well and insists on feeding them before they go.

When he’s finally standing at the door to this place he already feels at home in, waiting for Lancelot and Merlin to return with the horses that were bedded down in the neighbor’s cow byre, Hunith pulls Arthur in for a motherly hug.

“All will be well, Arthur. You’ll see.” She sounds so sure that when Arthur pulls away from her warm embrace, he finds a smile returning.

“Thank you, Hunith.”

“Look after my boy, will you? He needs it sometimes.”

Arthur nods dutifully.

“Oh, and tell that husband of mine that he can come back home any time.” She winks.

He can’t help but laugh. “I’ll do what I can, though I’m sure he’s had enough of my father for a lifetime and will be eager to come home to you.”

Smiling at him fondly, Hunith rises up on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his temple. “For your mother,” she says.

Mouth pressing tight against rising emotion, Arthur nods again and then steps outside and closes the door behind him.


	20. Chapter 20

The drawing darkness finds Arthur, Merlin and Lancelot encamped at the same crooked stream Arthur’d rested at two night’s prior; the culmination of a very long day in the saddle. They’d ridden much the way Arthur had as well, with few stops except to refresh their mounts, and an alternating rhythm of walk – lope – gallop -lope – walk. The pace and urgency afforded little time for anything more than the lightest chatter and as they settle into the easy routine of making up camp, they’re all wearily but companionably silent.

Lancelot doesn’t say anything – though he lifts a sly brow – when Arthur lays out his and Merlin’s bedrolls side-by-side, effectively doubling them.

For the first time in two nights, Arthur falls asleep almost as soon as his head falls back into his makeshift pillow. He could explain it away as exhaustion, but he knows that the figure lying next to him, warm along the whole of his side, is largely the reason for it.

The next morning, Merlin insists on a hot meal, citing digestive issues if he’s forced to chew any more hardtack or dried venison. He makes them porridge and thanks to Hunith’s contributions to their limited stores, Merlin’s able to season it liberally with honey and cinnamon and dried currants and hazelnuts.

As they mount up for a second straight day of riding Arthur must admit he’s feeling better for a genuinely full, satisfied belly, and it makes for an easier ride.

They canter past the postern gates into Camelot's lower town just before sundown, and even as they're riding towards the stables, Arthur notices an odd commotion amongst the common folk. Furtive whispers and low murmurs and strange expressions are all evident when they watch Artur riding past. It's not until they get to the stable where Tyr is standing outside with a gorgeous grey destrier, trying to calm the fractious mount as it's rearing and blowing, that he gets the explanation.

Arthur draws up Virtue, not wanting to interfere or distract Tyr in a way that could see him injured, but he's in a hurry. He waves for one of the young grooms to come take their mounts.

He approaches Tyr, slowly, to avoid startling the pawing, stamping grey. When he's sidled close enough, he asks in a calm, low voice, "What goes on here, Tyr? Whose mount is this?"

"It's the damndest thing," Tyr begins and then seems to remember who he's speaking to. "I mean, it's uh, quite an extraordinary thing, your highness. The Lady Morgana has come back to Camelot.”

Arthur jerks back like he’s been struck and then regrets the motion when the dappled stallion half-rears and then paws a hooftip against the cobbles, sending up sparks from his iron shoes. Arthur laughs then, a soft, knowing chortle. "This is Morgana's mount, isn't it?"

"It is, sire," Tyr confirms.

Nodding, Arthur is about to step away when Tyr adds, "She didn't come alone, neither."

That gives Arthur pause. "Who came with her?

"Another lady, my lord. Never saw her before. Rode on another mount as willful and hot-tempered as this one."

"A lady?"

"I didn’t catch her name," Tyr hurries to say. "But I've already heard talk, gossip and the like." He ducks his head, like he's embarrassed to admit to having listened to such low speculation. "It's said that she's someone the King knows. From years back. That she's some kind of sorceress!"

From behind him Merlin is the one to supply the name. "Nimueh. It has to be."

Arthur figures something else out then. He nods a distracted dismissal to Tyr, acknowledges Lancelot's offer to stay behind and see their mounts handled with a word of thanks, and then grabs Merlin’s forearm, tugging him towards the keep.

"Morgana," he begins. "I told you she was studying magic on the Isle of the Blessed. My father was always so angry about that. And, I’ve always known it wasn't _just_ because Morgana has magic. Nimueh must be there. _That's_ why he's always been so bitter towards Morgana's decision to go there. Because he knew Nimueh was at the Isle and he blames her for all that he feels magic has wrought."

"Why do you think they're here?" Merlin wonders.

"I don't know," Arthur shakes his head and shrugs in the same motion. "But we're certainly going to find out."

He's drawn to his mother's room, and while he knows that's logical considering the reason that he and Merlin rushed back, but there's something else telling him that's where he needs to be; no, that's where _they_ need to be. He gives a perfunctory knock when they reach her door in the quiet, private wing, but he opens without waiting for any response. He's not at all surprised to see his father, his half-sister and a striking, dark-haired woman in the room.

"Arthur," Uther breathes out, like his arrival is just the thing that Uther's been waiting for. "Thank gods you're here."

"What's going on?" Arthur asks.

His question is lost as both Nimueh and Morgana turn to Merlin. "Emrys," Nimueh says, smiling, her expression almost covetous.

"Emrys?" Arthur repeats.

Merlin looks discomfited. "It's a name the druids call me." He fairly cringes as he says it.

"It's a storied name tied to prophecy and power," Nimueh states. Then she turns her gaze onto Arthur. "You, are Arthur Pendragon." She steps closer. "I would know your mother's eyes anywhere."

"And you're Nimueh." He's not entirely sure how to feel, talking to the woman who ensured his existence in the world, but also saw his mother brought to this state.

He looks over at his mother then and she's frailer than he's ever seen her. "Mother," he gasps.

"It's all right, Arthur," Morgana says.

"But look at her–”

She shushes him gently. "I'll explain."

"Quickly though," Nimueh says. And for the first time Arthur notices a strain in her voice.

Even before Morgana starts speaking it all starts to make a perverse sort of sense.

"They're tied together, you see.” Morgana gestures between Ygraine and Nimueh. “Their life force is shared between them. Normally it's more in balance, although because Nimueh has magic, she hasn't declined as much as our mother has."

Even in the midst of that explanation, Arthur's pleased to hear Morgana refer to Ygraine as 'mother'.

"A few days ago, she collapsed and fell into a state much like that." She nods to Ygraine, who's frighteningly still and vacant-eyed in her chair by the window.

"When mother was alert the other day!" He looks over to his father. "When she suddenly had strength to speak again. She was pulling that from Nimueh, wasn't she?"

Morgana nods. "And right now, Nimueh needs all of her strength."

"But won't that harm –”

"No," Morgana shakes her head, unsettling the long inky coils of her neatly plaited hair. "Don't worry. It's as it's meant to be."

"But, I brought Merlin here –”

Again, Morgana shushes him. "I know. _We_ know exactly why Emrys is here. And that's why I brought Nimueh back as well. This can only be done with her here. With the both of them together."

"Can I do it?" Merlin asks. "Do I have the strength."

Morgana turns to him, her cat-green eyes wide and curious. Like she's seeing so much more than the man standing before her with his mink dark hair, and his wide blue eyes and those prominent ears. "With my help," Morgana nods. "I think. _We_ think," she corrects, "that between the two of us, using my knowledge of Nimueh's spellcraft, and your pure, magical strength, we can save them both."

Nimueh sways, and utters a curt, "Chair, please."

Surprisingly, Uther's the first one to move, rushing over to the corner table to pick up the chair Arthur sometimes uses for his visits. He carries it next to Ygraine's, leaving little space between them.

Merlin hurries in to help Nimueh take the steps necessary to cross over to the waiting seat and then eases her down into it. It's fascinating and terrifying both, to see the way that Ygraine seems to perk up even as Nimueh fades.

"Merlin," Morgana waves him over.

"Morgana Pendragon," Merlin says, nodding.

She laughs, short but amused. "Yes, yes. We'll save the introductions for after we attempt this impossible feat of magic together."

"Right," Merlin agrees, his grin a match for hers.

"Are you ready?" She holds out a hand to him.

Merlin turns to give Arthur one last, searching look.

Arthur nods. "I trust you," he says softly. And then he repeats those same words, silently, mouthing them. On his third repetition, 'trust' becomes a different word altogether.

Morgana quirks a brow and looks between them with delighted speculation and then she throws a wink Arthur's way. "I'll take good care of him, dear brother." She's quick to move away from the light frivolity. Taking Merlin's hands, her face now set in a determined mask, she tells him, "I will guide the spell. What I need you to do is open yourself up to the pull. Let your magic buoy mine. It may feel like I'm asking too much of you but try not to fight that. Try to just let it flow out of you."

Merlin gives a tight nod. "Yes, I will."

"Good." Morgana glances at Arthur and Uther who's moved to stand behind him. "You might want to step back."

"Why," Uther asks.

And honestly, Arthur's surprised that's the first thing he's said in many long minutes. He'd have expected Uther to be full of questions or demands, but he's been oddly quiescent.

Morgana rolls her eyes, but she's looking at their father with open affection for the first time in years, so Arthur doesn't think it's such a bad thing. "There's no harm, it's just there'll be a sort of nimbus surrounding us. It wouldn't hurt you, but if you were to step into it or pass a hand through it, it might feel very strange.”

"Oh," Uther dutifully backs up several steps.

Arthur backs up next to him, until their elbows are touching.

"That's good," Morgana says and then her attention shifts back to Merlin, wholly and with intensity. "Just let your magic free, Merlin. Trust in it."

"I'm ready."

It's the first Arthur gets to hear Morgana speak in that odd, archaic tongue that he's heard Merlin use several times now. Her voice is resonant and melodic and her eyes blaze with fire at the same time Merlin's flare to gold.

Arthur understands then, what Morgana meant by a nimbus. It's like the glow of light between their eyes intensifies and spreads all around them in a warm halo. Little flashes and flickers of birdfoot static spark in that cloudlike haze. Morgana continues chanting and Merlin mouths words along with her. He seems transfixed; the intensity of his focus obvious. Even from this distance Arthur can see that his shoulders are beginning to shake and sweat is springing up on his brow.

He looks past them a moment, at his mother and Nimueh. Their hands are clasped tight and resting on the arm of the willow chair. He's not sure which one of them managed to reach out. Both have their eyes closed, and as he watches, that cloud of diaphanous gold spreads to subsume them in its' diffuse but crackling, storm cloud glow.

It feels like time stands still and drags on slow as treacle in the same moments. He has no idea how long he's been standing there, or Morgana's been chanting while Merlin remains steadfast and silent.

A sudden grimace flashes across Merlin's face, and then another, and it goes tight with pain. And Arthur wants to rush in, yank Merlin away from whatever unseen force is harming him. Maybe Uther can sense that, because his hand falls on Arthur's shoulders and he says, "Wait, Arthur. Just wait."

It's one of the hardest things he's done; stopping himself from charging in to stop this madness. Morgana's tone grows more strident with each word, like speaking them is agony. Merlin's skin has gone from bright flush to deathly pale, but he doesn’t let go of Morgana's hands and his eyes are burning brighter than Arthur's ever seen them.

In the chairs, both Nimueh and his Mother slump over, like marionettes with their strings cut. This time he's the one holding back his father's charge, when he feels Uther take in involuntary step in their direction.

"Wait, father," throwing Uther's words back at him, but it's meant to be a kindness, because he knows this is going to work. He trusts that it has too.

Morgana's voice keeps rising in pitch and volume and eventually the air is whirling around them like a dervish. Her hair is blowing up, wild and writhing like a living thing.

It reaches a crescendo, like a thunderclap, lightening striking right in the midst of them: a flash so bright Arthur jerks his head down to avert his gaze. He's still blinking away afterimages for long minutes after. When his vision finally returns, and he looks up it's to see Merlin slumped into Morgana's arms. But even though he looks ready to collapse, he's smiling and gasping out a wavering, weirdly joyous laugh. Morgana's cheeks are pale as hoarfrost, but the tears that glitter come from eyes that are radiant with glee. She wraps her arms around Merlin, holding him tight.

"Uther. Arthur."

He looks beyond Merlin then, to see his mother sitting up straight, without the support of the strong woven willow branches. Her expression is serene, and her voice almost unfamiliar for the strength in it. Next to her, Nimueh is seated much the same, blinking and looking around like she's waking from a long dream and seeing things for the first time.

"Ygraine!" Uther cries out and he rushes to her. Before he can reach the chair, though, Ygraine stands.

Arthur nearly staggers. His mother is _standing_.

It stops Uther in his tracks, staring at his wife with a slack jaw and wondrously bewildered eyes. But his hesitation doesn't matter in the end, because Ygraine is the one hurrying to close the distance and she practically leaps into Uther's arms. Arthur watches them embrace with elation so strong it aches in his chest, and sees tears dripping unabashedly down his cheeks.

Ygraine turns her head against Uther's chest, looking over at him. When she beckons him over, Arthur doesn't hesitate. He's drawn in to a tearful, three-way hug, as both his parents’ arms wrap around him.

"Mother. I can't believe it. I just… I can’t.”

"Arthur," she replies in a matching, blissful wonder, "Oh, my Arthur. Believe it my son. I’m here."

Uther is muttering as well, pressing kisses to her brow, taking up her delicate hands and kissing the backs of them, touching her cheek like he can't believe she's real, and not some spirit or specter.

Someone taps him on the shoulder, and he looks over it to see Morgana there. It feels so right to draw her into their over-long hug; they're a family, reunited once more.

Although, at the same time, Arthur's heart is forever split now. He pulls away far enough that he can't seek out Merlin. Nimueh seems to have recovered as well as his mother. She's standing with Merlin, softly talking to him. He looks exhausted, but there's also something so invigorated in his expression. Arthur's heart warms to see it.

Merlin flicks a glance his way and gives a bashful grin.

Arthur sighs, happily.

There's a knock at the door. Disentangling himself from his families' embrace, Arthur hurries to answer it, thinking it might be Gwen, come to check on Ygraine before settling her into bed. To his surprise, it's Balinor standing outside.

"I hope I'm not disturbing –” he begins, but then he looks past Arthur and sees Ygraine standing in Uther's arms. "It worked then!" he states, beaming.

Even though Arthur nods delightfully, he can't help puzzling at Balinor's knowledge. Before he can ask anything, Merlin's at his shoulder, and Merlin steps aside so Balinor can embrace his son.

Uther lifts his head then, like he's remembering there are other people in the room. His gaze travels from Balinor to Nimueh and he shakes his head, like he's denying something. "Balinor," he says. "Please, come in. Say hello to my wife." He presents Ygraine with pride and the slightly possessive tone of a man newly wed.

Balinor crosses arms with Uther, shaking them, but Ygraine he hugs, lifting her off the ground in his exuberance.

Arthur remembers that there are probably a few things he still doesn't know the truth of. But now, he's got a lifetime to find out. Merlin slips away from his father and rejoins Arthur.

“Thank you, Merlin,” Arthur says, voiced pitched for Merlin’s ears alone. “What you did for me…”

“For us,” Merlin corrects, and he casts a sideways smirk in Arthur’s direction. “Don’t forget what you asked me in Ealdor.”

“I haven’t forgotten.” He swallows, finding all kinds of emotions clogging his throat. “And, I’m looking forward to having that discussion with my father.”

Merlin’s bark of laughter draws all eyes to them. Arthur shrugs, like he has no idea what got Merlin so amused.

Uther – smiling so wide Arthur’s beginning to wonder if his face hurts – swivels his head in a slow scan of everyone in the room. “This calls for a feast!”

Merlin and Arthur groan in unison.

The next evening, after the festivities wind down – Uther kept to his word, though this affair was more subdued than many of their recent dinners of state – Arthur’s sitting with Merlin and the knights, laughing at a ridiculous story Gwaine is spinning when he spies his mother stand, kiss Uther on the brow and excuse herself for the night.

Arthur elbows Merlin. “C”mon.”

He’s got some questions for his mother, and he doesn’t want his father present for this discussion. From the way that Uther is throwing back cups with Balinor and Rodor, pounding on the table and bellowing with uproarious laughter, it’s unlikely they’ll be interrupted.

They follow Ygraine to her quarters and find the door ajar; she’s waiting for them, seated in her willow chair.

“Arthur, my darling. Come in.”

I thought you’d be tired of that thing?” Arthur flicks a hand toward the chair. Seeing her in it reminds him of too many days spent wishing she were healthy.

“You know, it really is quite comfortable.” She lets out a high and merry little laugh. “Come in, both of you, sit down.”

Arthur considers the other chair, but decides he’d rather settle on the floor at his mother’s feet. Merlin folds his legs and sits beside him, close enough that their knees bump.

“It was a lovely feast, wasn’t it?” she asks, but Arthur can see now that she’s got a teasing glint in her eye.

He groans. “How many times did I come in here bemoaning night after night spent at stuffy banquets listening to dull nobles drone on and on about this land dispute and that wheat tariff?”

“Hmm,” she pretends to consider. “Lately not as often as you came in here to express your confusion over a troublesome, frustrating provincial prince.”

“What’s that?” Merlin asks, perking up and looking far too delighted.

“Mother!” Arthur cries, scandalized.

“Oh,” she tells a grinning Merlin, “just that Arthur’s been coming in here since the very morning you arrived to tell me about his daily frustrations with a visiting prince.” She shrugs. “Unfortunately, I couldn’t tell him he would just have to accept his destiny.”

“Mum,” Arthur says, going serious once more. “I have to ask. How… how do you know this? You weren’t at all surprised by what happened yesterday. And,” he swallows down his anxiety, “and you’re not at all concerned about Merlin and me.”

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m not at all concerned. I’m happy. Relieved.”

Relieved?

"The night that I decided to go ahead with the spell, to bring you into being, Nimueh and I fought, as we'd never done before. Oh, we'd argued, on and off, for weeks about my request. Every time she denied me. Until I'd almost doubted my own mind.” She turns her head, gazing a something only she can see. “But then I asked her for a different boon; I asked her to read my auguries. With the promise that I'd leave off my pleading, and never again ask for a child, if she saw there was no chance that I could survive to raise that child. But the other side to that request was the bargain that if she saw any hint that there was a possibility of having you and knowing a future with you and Uther, that I would take the chance. Nimueh agreed to that. But I made her swear to give me the truth though a blood oath.”

“What's that?” Arthur asks, although he expects some of the explanation is right in the name.

“It and oath used by sorcerers and those with magic. It tied her honesty to her life. If she were to lie, it could've killed her.”

That sounds horrifying. “Why would she agree to such a thing?”

Ygraine’s fine-boned shoulders raise in the barest shrug. “I don't think she expected to foretell any outcome where such a thing – my surviving the magic – was possible. So, she cast the spell, up in the sorcerer’s tower."

“That's how it got its name,” Merlin hisses out. “It wasn't a dungeon for sorcerers.”

Arthur shushes him.

His mother looks at them with a knowing fondness. "No, it wasn't. That was Nimueh's tower. Well, the tower was given to for use to Camelot's Court Sorcerer.”

“Court Sorcerer?” Arthur exclaims. “That was a real position?

“Oh yes,” Ygraine nods. "And Nimueh served that role faithfully, for many, years before all of this." She circles her hand, taking in Arthur and herself.

"So, she cast this spell to glimpse the future?”

“That's… not _precisely_ correct.” Ygraine looks to Merlin.

He goes slightly pink under her regard but explains to Arthur. "Reading auguries or seeking the future in the stars, or any kind of study of fate and destiny is never clear. So many things can change and those small change ripple outward, like the rings in a lake when you throw a stone. What Nimueh did was to seek a vision of potential futures. The possibilities that existed should your mother convince her to cast the spell.”

Arthur jerks his head forward, glaring at his mother. "That's so irresponsible. You risked your life on the merest possibility? On the idea that there might be the slimmest chance you wouldn't die when I was born?

"I love you, Arthur. And I have since even before Nimueh helped your father and I to create you. And I had hope. So, yes. I did risk my life just on that. For you.”

He can't really say anything to that, can he?

"You trusted me to save your Mum's life," Merlin reminds him. Which is a little silly since it happened only yesterday. "And was that decision made on anything more than hope?"

Arthur surrenders. "All right, I concede. You're both right. So, what did Nimueh see?”

“In the midst of darkness and despair, she found that one glimmering moment of hope. All that she could tell me was that she saw two figures with a hand outstretched, one dark, one light and each on opposites sides of a coin. And that as the coin spun faster and faster a shape formed between their fingertips. It was the shape of a dragon.”

A chill runs down Arthur's spine.

“I sat in this very room, still feeling hale and healthy without any idea of what was to come. A lovely young foreign queen came to visit me. She brought with her a little boy with large blue eyes and unruly dark hair.” She reaches out, tapping a light fingertip on Merlin's jaw, just below his earlobe. "And adorably large ears."

Merlin ducks his chin; the pink hue coloring the tips of those ears quite charming.

“She and I had a lovely afternoon chatting and laughing and watching our young sons play together like the fastest friends, instead of strangers who'd met only that morning. And then I saw her son reach out to hand you, my little tow-haired devil, a carved figure of a wooden dragon. And I knew then, that no matter how long it took or what might befall me, you and Merlin were destined. Not only to save me, but for each other.”

Arthur absorbs that silently for a very long time. The ideas of fate and destiny have always disturbed him for no reason he could name. But now, thinking on them with Merlin included, he finds comfort in their surety.

“Balinor knows about this, doesn't he?” Arthur wonders aloud, piecing more together than she's letting on.

Merlin turns sharply to him. "My father? How would he..." he pauses, and then answers the question himself. "My mum told him."

Ygraine nods. "Your father was another friend to Camelot all those years ago. Even before he met Hunith. We had trouble with another dragonlord who was taking advantage of Kilgharrah and using him to harry our tenants and vassals.

“So, Uther called upon the services of Balinor to bring Kilgharrah under control. For years he was someone else wholly trusted by Camelot. I tried to stop Uther banishing him, but in those days, he wouldn’t listen to me.” She sighs. “Back then I was half afraid that if I pushed too hard Uther might decide that anyone caught using magic would be put to death.”

“Oh, now that’s just absurd,” Merlin scoffs.

Arthur and his mother, who know Uther well, both shrug.

Wondering aloud, Arthur asks, “What do you think he’ll say now, when I tell him I want his blessing on a union between Camelot and Essetir?”

Ygraine smiles, thin and very dragon-like in her own way. “Oh, I can guarantee he’ll say yes. Things will be changing around here, darling boy. And I want you both to follow your hearts.”

It’s an amazingly freeing moment to take Merlin’s hand and thread their fingers together, while his mother looks on.

“Besides, there’s peace in the Southern Kingdoms now, and times are changing. He’ll just have to get used to the idea of having a sorcerer for a son-in-law.”


	21. Chapter 21

_Epilogue_

“This way,” Ygraine calls, waving Nimueh after her.

“I remember the way, Ygraine,” Nimueh laughs.

Uther sighs and trudges up the spiraling staircase behind them. He should’ve known it would come to this. He’d thought to introduce magic back to Camelot slowly, and with stringent laws and heavy punishments. Ygraine has fought him every step of the way.

It seems that every time he suggests something these days, she’s ready with an alternate that Uther despises but can’t bring himself to reject.

So, he’s climbing the Sorcerer’s tower for the first time in twenty years, his wife and Camelot’s new ‘Advisor on all things Magical and Sorcerous’ preceding him up the stairs, giggling like Morgana did when she was eleven years old and put a frog in Arthur’s bedding.

“We’ll refurbish it, of course,” Ygraine explains once they step inside the old, disused tower. “You and Morgana will need a place to study when you’re here.”

“I think it’s been getting a bit of use,” Nimueh states with a laugh, and she waves a hand down at an abandoned, empty wine keg. The fact that it’s nearly free of dust tells Uther that someone’s been up here very recently.

“Probably your son,” Ygraine teases.

Uther sighs, again. He’d argue, but she’s probably right. That boy…

The one good thing to come of all this is that Morgana has agreed to come home, at least some of the time. She says she has years of study ahead of her on the Isle of the Blessed, but Uther knows she’s taking things just as slowly as he is. He’ll give her time.

Uther steps to the window, pushing the shutters wide. He gazes down on the courtyard and spots Arthur and Merlin riding out, side-by-side. Ygraine joins him, leaning her head on his shoulder. “I don’t think I’ve ever appreciated the view quite this much,” she says softly.

“Nor I,” Nimueh agrees, although when Uther looks back at her, she’s spinning around slowly, taking in the circular room. Not quite accusatory she states, “The last time I was here, you swore I’d never set foot in Camelot again.”

Uther’s chin drops nearly to his chest and though his words are reluctant, he manages to grate out, “Yes, well. Perhaps I was… wrong.”

“Oh, I know you were.” She joins him and Ygraine at the window then and she gestures to the view of the pair of men on horseback with an elegant sweep of her hand. “And there is proof.”

“Nimueh,” Ygraine chides lightly, though she’s tittering as well.

Uther knows she’s not done.

“Magic _will_ ever be tied to Camelot, just as I predicted.” 

Uther turns to glare balefully, while Ygraine covers a low chuckle with a delicately raised hand, like she’s deflecting a cough.

“Well,” Nimueh amends, her gaze shifting from speculatively eyeing the betrothed princes, to staring curiously at something around Uther’s shoulder, “perhaps not _exactly_ as I predicted.”

“What do you mean?” Uther asks, both puzzled and wary at what on earth she could be referring to now.

“I don’t quite remember your sigil looking so… spry.”

Uther follows the line of her eyes and finds himself staring at the dragon embroidered in gleaming, golden thread on the rich, crimson shoulder of his cloak.

“Someone needs to teach that young man to control his more… enthusiastic expressions,” she adds with a smirk. And then she and Ygraine are falling into each other, pealing laughter.

It takes him a moment, but then Uther spots it; instead of the stately Pendragon drake, the sigil has been reshaped into a pair of very amorous male dragons.

“Damned magic.”

**Author's Note:**

> Tag Note (Contains Spoilers) re: 'Harm to Animals' - A stag is killed during a hunting scene, though it is offscreen and isn't described in detail. Also, a horse gets his leg broken and it's thought he'll have to be killed, but he is healed. This is more explicit in that the injury and the horse's suffering is described. 
> 
> Other Notes:  
The title of the fic comes from the lyrics to the Meatloaf song: "Did You Ever Love Somebody" - because I am shameless and will steal Meatloaf, Our Lady Peace & Jeff Buckley lyrics every damn time.
> 
> I want to get tattoo of those sigil banners! <3
> 
> If you have any questions before reading this fic, I'm happy to provide spoilers - just drop me an e-mail skitz_phenom(at)yahoo(dot)com - or - I'm on tumblr as touchofstrange and have anon messaging turned on. I don't tag for top/bottom roles as I'm firmly in the 'I like everyone to do everything to everybody' mindset, but if it bugs you, reach out. :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [ART: Lay Your Head Down on the Shoulder of a Good Friend](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21244898) by [siennavie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/siennavie/pseuds/siennavie)
  * [Bonus ART: Lay Your Head Down on the Shoulder of a Good Friend](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21514525) by [siennavie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/siennavie/pseuds/siennavie)


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